The Gyre Widens
by Cor Tenebrae
Summary: After the death of the Master Chief, Cortana must raise their son alone as a single mother. But how does the offspring of a Spartan and an AI come to terms with who and what he is? Sequel to "Other Worlds Than These."
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Prologue

_For what can war, but endless war, still breed?_

_John Milton_

_Paradise Lost_

…

1421 Hours, September 20th 1967 (Gregorian Calendar) Somewhere Along the Vietnamese/Cambodian Border

Private First Class Derrick Dawson crept through the thick jungle underbrush. He did his best to ignore the flies swarming around his neck, the sweat soaking his olive drab camouflage, and the thin layer of moisture glittering off of the muzzle of his M16. He closed his brown eyes as another carpet of green leaves hanging from a low branch swung towards his face. Dawson felt the foliage brush up against his cheeks which were just beginning to recover from the acne of his adolescence. Of course, as Dawson would sometimes reflect, he was still very much in his adolescence. What greeted him when he opened his eyes caused him to lower the muzzle of his rifle and his mouth to hang open.

Bodies littered the jungle floor in front of him, their arms and legs twisted in odd angles, at least the ones that still had their limbs firmly attached. A corpse slumped up against a tree, AK-47 rounds gathered in and around his lap, had his face smashed in. Dawson could see the pulsating pink goo of what had once been the man's brain, and all around him the stench of death invaded his nose. He attempted to count the bodies, but soon gave up, willing instead to attempt to divert his eyes from the carnage in front of him. He took a step forward and his black boots sank a few inches in fresh red mud, sending a fresh wave of nausea.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, scanning the faces of the men around him. They had pushed through the underbrush at an even five meter spread, but once they hit the clearing the entire platoon bunch up, showing the same look of both awe and disgust at the carnival of death. What felt like a rain drop hit the top of his helmet and Dawson looked up, only to be pelted again on his forehead. The body of a dead Viet Cong hung upside down hanging precariously by what was left of his legs which were stripped near to the bone, the flesh revealing tell tale signs of burn marks. His stomach had been cut wide open and the intestines had become tangled in the branches, his eyes holding a blank stare of absolute fear and panic.

"Jesus mother fucking Christ," Dawson repeated. "Who the hell is this guy?"

"I don't know man," the soldier next to him said. Private Reyes' eyes darted back and forward with a look of constant paranoia. "But I'm not sure who freaks me out more. Him or the damned gooks."

Dawson shook his head. The man had appeared out of nowhere, as if spawned from the womb of the jungle highlands itself, like something out of a Joseph Conrad novel. Dawson had overheard some of the conversation the man had with Lieutenant Rain, a man Dawson had always thought was nothing more than a ninety day wonder. The type of officer who held contempt for the opinions of the more experience enlisted men, the kind of officer that would get men killed because he actually believed he knew what he was doing better than anyone else. Private Dawson had overheard something about a CIA operation, a few things about Cambodia, and at least one mention of the Russians, but other than that he was left in the dark. What he did know was that this man, who apparently was Navy Spec. Ops., had been given tactical command of the entire platoon. He had garnered some enjoyment out of Lieutenant Rain's frustrations, but that soon ebbed as what was supposed to be a two week patrol turned into four, and then stretched on the verge of five. Then of course there was this.

"He we got a live one over here." The shout broke Dawson out of his internal contemplation and he raised his rifle again, quickly finding the intended target. The sat slumped up against a fallen tree which swarmed with insects, the creatures jumping freely onto his battered and blood stained clothing. The Vietnamese man had his arms wrapped around his shoulders and was rocking back and forth, muttering what Dawson called gook speak underneath his breath.

Suddenly the man's eyes widened and he began shouting, "Quỷ! Quỷ!" From somewhere on his hip the enemy soldier pulled a TT-33 handgun and pointed at a place somewhere in the tangible darkness. Around him Dawson heard more rifles being raised, safeties being clicked off, and his own finger moved to squeeze gently down on the trigger.

"Hold your fire." The voice that came from the darkness was calm and slightly baritone. The man stepped out of the dense foliage, his uniform holding no insignia other than the flag of the United States. His jet black hair was slightly longer than regulation length, his face that of a man in his early twenties with rugged if not somewhat primitive features. Those that knew him as a child said that he looked strikingly similar to his mother, except of course for his eyes. Those deep blue ice water eyes were exactly like his father's, and even though he was only looking at the man from a sideways perspective Dawson felt his knees give slightly as he looked at them. He stood several inches higher than even the tallest man in the platoon, his build that of almost pure muscle, a thin scar tracing itself along his left cheek bone. The man slung his own rifle onto his back and held up his hands in front of the Viet Cong.

"Quỷ!" the Vietnamese soldier repeated, the pistol shaking in his grip.

The dark haired man spoke, his accent and pronunciation perfect, "Tôi sẽ không làm tổn thương bạn." He reached out a hand towards the pistol as me moved closer with steady steps towards the Vietcong. "Chỉ cho tôi súng của bạn." There was a click as the Viet Cong pulled the trigger and Dawson felt his body jump. The dark haired Navy man did not so much as flinch. Dawson blinked, and that time was all it took for the Spec. Ops soldier to remove the gun from the enemy soldier's hands and place it on his own him. Tears began to stream out of the Vietnamese man's face and he hunched his body over to resume his rocking posture, shaking his head violent back and forward.

"Medic," the dark haired man shouted, and Dawson saw Franklin jog forward from a position a few meters behind him. "Treat this man. Give him any water if you have it."

Franklin looked at the shivering Viet Cong and then back at the dark haired man, "You mean the gook Chief?"

"Yes," the Chief said. "Dawson, Reyes. Guard him." The Chief moved past them without so much as a second glance, melting once again into the underbrush. Dawson never got use to that, how the Chief even being as big as he was could move so soundlessly, seeming to have the ability to disappear and reappear at will.

"This is fucked up," Reyes said as he took a knee beside Dawson. "You know I've heard things about those CIA freaks."

"You always hear things," Franklin said, handing the Viet Cong a mostly full canteen. The prisoner looked at the container as if he had never seen it before, and then lunged at it, emptying more water onto his face than into his mouth.

"No I'm serious this time," Reyes insisted. "I got one of them spooks talking in a bar one night. From what he said the government has been running experiments. There is a group of them that are convinced that there are other realities, other worlds all around us. From what that spook said they've been trying to open a window." Dawson reached out his hand, palm wide open, towards Reyes. "What do you want?"

"You're grass," Dawson replied. "You've been smoking too much of that shit. It's making you paranoid. Reyes gave him the finger and Dawson made a light, if not somewhat reluctant chuckle. "I'm guessing you have a point."

"Yeah," Reyes said. "I'm saying that whoever the Chief really is he has something to do with that stuff. No guy can wipe out an entire platoon of VC and not have a scratch on him."

"Whatever he is," Franklin said as he began to open his med kit. "This guy seemed to have a pretty good idea. The word he kept saying, quỷ. It means demon."


	2. Chapter 2: Broken Promise

Chapter 2: Broken Promise

_War is the trade of kings._

_John Dryden_

_King Arthur_

…

1300 Hours, January 15th 1967 (Gregorian Calendar) Central Highlands, South Vietnam

Chief Petty Officer John Roland Toren sat with his tall back propped up against the door of the UH-1 Iroquois, his left leg stretched out along the metal floor and his right leg curled up against his chest, the cramp interior of the Huey making his large size an inconvenience and he felt the soldiers beside him occasionally brush up against them as they attempted to get comfortable. His light blue eyes stared blankly at the thick jungle below him, the green hills rising and falling like a living ocean wave, capturing the shadows of the helicopters as they raced through the sky. With the wind buffeting against his face the Chief pulled out a pack of cigarettes from one of his breast pockets, then cupping his hand into an open fist and placing his lighter inside he lit the cigarette, blowing a long trail of smoke into the open air.

A private, looking barely over the age of eighteen, his face as smooth as the day he was born, leaned over the man sitting next to him and shouted over the roar of the engines and the thump of the rotating blades, "Hey you're one of them ain't ya?" The Chief turned his head, his cigarette hovering a few inches from his lips. The private, his nametag reading Lawson, continued, "You're one of the guys from Project…" the last word was lost in the hailstorm of noise, but it was easy to guess what he meant to say.

The Chief raised an eyebrow, looking the young private over, the smell of green inexperience washing over him, "How long have you been in Nam?"

"Two weeks sir," Lawson replied, yelling as loud as he could.

"Then let me give you some advice," the Chief said. He took another long drag from the cigarette, and spoke as he let the smoke out, "Don't ask too many questions. You'll be happier that way." Lawson blinked, looking confused, then nodded. He settled back down into a sitting position and rested his head against his overburdened rucksack. The Huey hit an air pocket, causing the entire craft to lurch, and the Chief saw Lawson's face turn a slight shade of green. "This your first time out?"

"Yeah," Lawson said, fighting down the airsickness as best he could.

"You'll be okay," the Chief said. "Just make sure you stick close to me." He returned to looking out the door, the squadron of seven helicopters now passing through an open field. From overhead speakers popped to life, the voice of the pilot filtering through them.

"This is your Captain speaking. We are currently one minute from our destination and have begun the landing sequence. We here at Kilo 23 Air would like to thank you for choosing to fly with us today, and too show you our appreciation me and the co-pilot would like to put on a little sound track for you."

The Chief smiled his grin wide and open. The pilot's announcement was far from regulation standards, but then again the Chief had never been a fan of following regulations, or rules in general for that matter. The music began to play, drums and electric guitars blending together. The machine gunner, his body hanging precariously out the door, thumped the side of the Huey. "Hell yeah. Love this song."

The Chief popped the magazine out of his M-14, the corners of his mouth twitching at the site of brass, and slammed it back home, all the while listening to the lyrics.

_Some folks are born made to wave the flag, ohh their red, white, and blue._

_And when the band plays "Hail to the Chief" ohh they point the cannon at you lord,_

_It ain't me, it aint me. I ain't no senator's son_

_It ain't me, it ain't me. I ain't no fortunate one._

The Huey jumped again, and from a thick tangle of jungle trees covering the north side of the open field they were passing over rounds from ZPU anti-aircraft guns zoomed towards the approaching helicopters. The Chief threw his cigarette out the window, bracing himself for what he knew was about to come. From underneath the Huey rockets spat out of their cylinders like fire from the mouth of a medieval dragon, and in the distance the Chief watched as they exploded in the depths of the jungle. Long smoke trails of RPG rockets answered the American barrage, one passing just feet from the open doorway of the Huey.

_Some folks are born silver spoon in hand. Lord don't they help themselves_

_But when the taxman comes to the door, Lord the house looks like a rummage sale yes_

_It ain't me, it ain't me. I ain't no millionaire's son_

_It ain't me, it ain't me. I ain't no fortunate one_

The machine gunner opened fire, spraying bullets into the tangled foliage below, aiming at unseen targets with only a prayer to guide their trajectory. The Huey banked right, and the Chief gripped the side of the doorway as the inertia threatened to pull him out of the aircraft. More trails of smoke streaked past the helicopter, the anti aircraft rounds making a sickeningly charming sound. One of the Vietnamese gunners, either being lucky or good, found their mark and from inside the cabin the pilot and co-pilot's bodies jerked and sputtered as round after round slammed into them, broken glass filling in the holes that the bullets had made. The helicopter began to spin as the ground gunners trained their sights on it, round's pinging off the side of the air craft. The Chief tightened his grip even further to the point where the steel began to give way under his fingers. Then a ZPU round crashed through the doorway opposite the Chief, smashing through the skull of the machine gunner, and the Chief's overly perceptive eyes had just enough time to see the hot round lung towards his head.

_Some folks inherit star spangled eyes, ohh they send you down to war_

_And when you ask them "How much should we give?" Ohh the only answer is more, more, more!_

…

11:14 P.M., August 15th 1945 (Gregorian Calendar) New York, New York

Visiting hours were long over, but it seemed that the hospital staff had finally realized that those terms did not apply to the young man sitting in a stiff wooden chair beside the new mother. Jake peered over the bed at the newborn, and the small chuckle he gave caused Cortana to raise an eyebrow, "What?"

"Nothing," Jake said. "It's just that he looks so serious."

Cortana looked back down at her son. Truth be told she could hardly take her eyes off of him, constantly marveling at the small miracle she held in her arms. The baby was still asleep, looking as tired as Cortana felt, but even while resting he had his eyes and nose scrunched up, small wrinkles forming on his forehead. "I think he gets that from his father's side of the family. John and Roland are two of the most serious people I have ever met." Her mind paused, and Cortana waited in silent frustration for the new thought to form. She was not use to thinking so slowly, or to having every idea and memory that came into her head randomly splitting off into multiple tangents that were difficult to keep track of. Still this was what she had asked for, to be completely human in every way imaginable, and either the White or ka had finally saw fit to grant her wish.

The decision to name her son after John had been made almost immediately after her discovery that she was carrying the boy, but the decision on his middle name had come much later. After everything that Roland had done for her, how crucial he had been to making sure that she, Jake, and her son remained alive, Cortana felt that letting Roland be her son's middle name was the least the gunslinger deserved.

Jake continued to lean forward, his back hunched in a position that under normal circumstances would have made him extremely uncomfortable. Emotions that were strange and unfamiliar to him poured into his soul. He was very familiar with the concept of love, loved Cortana as a son would a mother, had loved Susannah in much the same way, loved Eddie as one would a brother, Callahan as one would a grandfather, and Roland and John as one would a father. This love, the love he felt for the child Cortana held in her arms, was something different however, something he did not know yet how to describe. He took a deep breath, preparing himself for what he would say next, "If John comes back."

"When he comes back," Cortana corrected. Her son opened one bleary blue eye and she smiled down at him. "He always comes back."

"When he comes back," Jake amended. "He is going to need a nickname," he motioned his head to the newborn wrapped tightly in light blue blankets, his skin still purple and his dark hair growing thick and wild. "You can't call them both John. Things will get confusing."

"I know," Cortana said. Her son closed his eyes again, drifting back into a peaceful sleep. "Of course Jake is already taken," she said, looking at Jake with mock accusation. "So really that only leave Johnny and Jack."

"What about Jonathan?" Jake asked.

Cortana shook her head, "Too formal. That's something I would use if I ever got mad at him."

"When you get mad at him," Jake said, his lips curving into a smile. "I'm sure he is going to do a few things that you are going to disagree with."  
Cortana huffed at him, "My son is going to be perfectly well behaved thank you very much."

"Sure, and he is not going to be stubborn like his mom and dad."

"Not when it comes to taking orders," Cortana said. She rocked her son gently in her arms, "You just need to remember that I'm you're superior officer." Her son scrunched his face up even tighter and let out a small cry. Cortana placed him up against her shoulder, slowly bouncing him up and down and patting him on the back.

He became quiet again and Cortana tried to ignore Jake's look that said quite plainly, I told you so. "I like Jack." Cortana looked at him inquisitively, and Jake took the queue to explain himself, "JFK's nickname was Jack, and Susannah always said that he was America's last gunslinger."

Cortana thought for a moment, still gently rubbing her son's back, "Jack could work." She then spoke into her son's ear, "Or do you like Johnny better?" He began to cry again, causing Jake to chuckle. "Fine we'll call you Jack. Does that make you happy." He stopped crying, it ending in a small whimper, and Cortana swore she could feel him pressing his head into her neck. She brought her son back down into her lap, the smile leaving her face, "He won't be a gunslinger though, or a Spartan. I swore it even before he was born. I swore it to Gan, the gods, and the Man Jesus that he would never be a soldier like his father was. That he would not have to go through what we went through. I promised myself." The conviction in her voice would have been enough to convince anybody, but in the mind of the boy sitting next to her there was nothing but doubt. "And that is a promise I plan to keep."

…

1315 Hours, January 15th 1967 (Gregorian Calendar) Central Highlands, South Vietnam

The side of Jack's face streamed blood onto his shirt, the round ripping a wide wound into his cheek. Outside heaven and earth blended together as the chopper continued to spin counter clockwise, black smoke billowing from the rotating blades. Dark spots appeared on the corners of his vision and it was only the considerable strength of his mind that kept him conscious. As the Huey raced towards the jungle canopy the song continued to play from the speakers.

_It ain't me, it ain't me. I ain't no military son_

_It ain't me, it ain't me. I ain't no fortunate one_

Jack heard the breaking branches underneath the roar of the firing guns and the failing engine. His body jerked upwards and the grip he had held onto the support beam over head finally broke as the chopper hit the ground. It fell to its side and the blades dug into the ground as they continued to rotate, and Jake's world went dark.


	3. Chapter 3: What Might Be

Chapter 3: What Might Be

_They are more to me than life, these voices…they are the strongest, most comforting thing there is anywhere: they are the voices of my comrades._

_Erich Maria Remarque_

_All Quiet on the Western Front_

_…_

_ It was the drums that woke him, their steady beat like something off of a broken ZZ Top record, or so Eddie had told him. He could still hear him at times, hear his laugh, his sarcastic jokes, could remember how no matter how bad things got Eddie would always find a way to lift their spirits with one wry remark even if he could not manage to lift his own. But Jake also remembered how he had died, his body twisting and morphing into some unholy demon as the Flood infection form took over his body, could feel the man's bones breaking as the parasite morphed his body into something more useful, and more than anything else Jake remembered shooting him down like he was nothing more than a rabid dog. _

_ He remembered all of it, sensing Callahan being torn apart by the vampires, Susannah's lifeless body propped up against the wall in Fedic, the distant sounds of Cortana writhing in pain as Mordred stood over her and his own crippled body lay useless in the dirt. There had been something then, a light brighter than anything he had ever seen before with a tall figure standing in the midst of it, and before Jake had passed into unconsciousness he had felt his owns bones being knitted back together as the white flame surrounded him as well. The act was useless, Jake would later reflect, because of one undeniable fact. It had all been his fault. They had all died because he was not strong enough to save them, and now he was the only one left. The last gunslinger, the last Spartan, for are they not two words that essentially mean the same thing?_

_ He was running. He had no recollection of when he had started running, but given the place that he now found himself in Jake thought it was a very good thing that his feet had decided to get a head start while his mind still blathered about. He was in the middle of a ruined city, skyscrapers, street signs, blackened asphalt, and the skeletons of cars all piled and jumbled together into one incoherent mixture on either side of him. In the midst of the rubble he saw a sign for Nozzala, which is some worlds is Coca-Cola, a faded green sign with the letters BP next to the rusted out remnants of gas pumps, and the steel frame of a long abandoned bus stop who centuries before had sheltered people from the wind and the rain as they waited for their ride to work. It should have been enough to tell him where he was, that he was once again roaming through the post apocalyptic wastelands of mid-world deep in the heart of the city of Lud, but he did not believe it, refused to believe it until he saw the crosses. _

_ They were like scarecrows in an industrial field sowed with rubble, blank eyes long ago pecked out by the raven and crows, bodies dry with loose flesh thinly draped over their skeletons, the wood of the crosses still stained with their blood. He ran through the alley of crosses, too innumerable for him to even begin to try and count, all the while in the distance hearing the steady beat of the drums. Then there were the screams, terrified yells of men and women tearing themselves apart in order to escape into the comfort of death before an even worse fate reached them. And in the midst of this crumbling city, somewhere tucked safely in the chaos, was the man in black. _

_ Jake began to run faster at this thought, the memory of his last visit to Lud still fresh in his mind, when his feet were swept out from underneath him by a gigantic beast matted in fur, fangs dripping with saliva, and eyes insane with rage. The Jiralhanae flung him to the ground, Jake's hand desperately groping for a pistol that was not there, mind clawing for the will to push the Brute off of him. He kicked upwards into the Brute's groin and he felt the soft organs give way underneath the toe of his boots. The Brute howled in pain and slammed a fist down towards Jake's head who immediately rolled out of the way, feeling specks of asphalt spray against his body as the Brute's fist made contact with the ground. He continued to roll until another fist stopped him, the impact just inches from his face. Jake looked up and just as the Jiralhanae was winding his fist back again. There was a flash of movement, and a green gauntleted hand thrusted a UNSC combat knife into the creature's throat. The Brute's body began to spasm as the armored Spartan held the wound open, liters of blood flowing from the aliens throat. The Brute gave one last twitch and the Master Chief threw him off of Jake, the cold stare of his orange visor meeting Jake's eyes. _

_ He was just like when Jake first saw him nearly a year ago in his own life, possibly longer due to the way time flowed in mid-world. An armored monolith, impossibly tall, seeming to be more machine than man. _

_ "Get up," John said. The words were not kind, spoken in the same fashion as when he and Jake had sparred in the bunker near Algul Siento. It was a challenge, one that Jake needed to meet. Jake stood up as quickly as he could, but before he could rise completely to his feet the Master Chief had already turned his back and was walking away. _

_ "Wait!" Jake ran after him, matching the Spartan's stride as best he could once he caught him. "Are you real?" John glanced over at him, quickly returning his gaze to the street in front of them, assault rifle in the low ready position. Jake persisted, "Is it really you?"_

_ "Yes," John said, and beside him he heard Jake let out a long breath of relief. _

_ "Cortana said that you were coming back."_

_ "I will," John replied. He always came back, the only real question being for how long, and that answer all depended on what he did while he was away from her, from them. John buried those thoughts for now. It did little good to think about them, even if they were what he was fighting for even in death, not when he still had orders, still had missions to carry out. _

_ "When?" Jake asked. The Master Chief had been waiting for that question, but still he ignored it. There was something more important to discuss and as always his time was limited._

_ "You were the best of us." His words nearly stopped Jake in his tracks, his neck still craned upward at an uncomfortable angle at John's helmeted head. "You need to be there for him when I can't be."_

_ "Jack," Jake muttered. He shook his head, "I'm not his dad, you are. You need to be there for him."_

_ Behind his visor John closed his eyes, "I can't be. Not now."_

_ "Why not?" Jake asked, not bothering to hide his frustration. "Because of your sense of duty. That stupid honor Eddie talked about?"_

_ "Yes," John said. Jake quickened his pace and stood in front of the armored giant, putting a hand on John's chest plate to stop him. The Master Chief stopped, shifting his visor to look down at the thirteen year old boy who stood a full foot and a half shorter than him. _

_ "I love her," Jake's voice was steady and calm, but John could see that his other hand had clenched into a fist. "You can't keep doing this to her. You coming back and leaving again is tearing Cortana apart, and all that's keeping her going is her belief that someday you are coming back for good."_

_ "I know," John said, and if Jake had not known him so well he would have been unable to detect the shame in his voice. "But I can't come back until I'm sure they're safe." He tilted his head up at the sky, mid-world's sun reflecting off of his visor, "Until he says I've done enough."_

_ Jake gritted his teeth and took his hand off of John's chest plate, "What do I need to do?"_

_ John moved his eyes back down to Jake, "There is something coming. You need to make sure he is ready for it."_

_ "Something's coming," Jake repeated. "What?"_

_ "A choice," John said, and from behind his visor he led out an inaudible sigh. "He needs to make the right one. He can't repeat my mistakes."_

_ "What mistakes?" No sooner had he spoken the question then the city of Lud, and the Spartan in front of him disappeared. The change was instantaneous, like flipping on a light switch, and the lack of any transition caused Jake to blink several times. _

_The sound of a helicopter filled his ears, the scent gasoline and gun powder hanging in the air like an useable fog, the humidity pressing against his skin and causing him to sweat instantly. He stood in the middle of a Vietnamese village, American soldiers dousing the huts with gasoline, the villagers themselves huddled into a large group, all of them sitting down in the village center who were guarded by five men with M16s. In the center of the controlled chaos stood a man, taller than all the rest, and when Jake first saw him his heart stopped beating for a full second. _

_At first he thought it was Mordred, the American soldier looking exactly like him with the exception of a long, thin, and deep scar stretching across his left cheek. The man had no insignia on his uniform, but his dog tags hung outside his shirt, and as Jake read the name on them his eyes widened. _

_Jack lit a cigarette, watching as his men poured gasoline on every square inch of the village. Two soldiers through down their empty gas cans at the foot of the hut closest to him, looking at Jack for confirmation. Jack gave a single short nod, and the American soldier through his own lit cigarette on the hut, the straw structure bursting into flame instantly. Jack's face was painted in crimson as the village burned down around him, watching as one of the Vietnamese women started running towards one of the burning huts. Two soldiers grabbed her by the shoulders and she fell to the ground, clawing at it as they dragged her back to where the rest of the villagers sat. _

_From somewhere to the right of Jake's vision he saw a Vietnamese man being dragged towards Jack, his straw hat falling to the ground as his knees dug into the dirt. The civilian was thrown at Jack's feet, and the two men eyed each other for several moment. Jake knew what Jack was about to do half a second before he did it. He tried to run towards him, but his feet remained firmly in place, and he could only watch helplessly as Jack drew his sidearm and pointed it at the civilian's head. Jack calmly thumbed the hammer back, and gently squeezed down on the trigger. _


	4. Chapter 4: Newborn, New Mother

Chapter 4: Newborn, New Mother

3:42: A.M., September 1st 1945 (Gregorian Calendar) St. Mary's Halfway House, New York, New York

Jake woke up, the sound of the gunshot still ringing in his ears and he struggled to control his breathing. Slowly he sat up from the cot he had been sleeping on, eyes adjusting to the dark. They were in a small one bedroom apartment, devoid of any furniture with the exception of the twin bed, the crib where Jack was currently sleeping which who's deep blue paint was chipping in various places, a long wooden dresser, and a small round table which could barely fit two people. Cortana was sitting at the table, her arm holding up her head, her dark hair now reaching past her shoulders, stress lines crisscrossing her face, dark bags underneath her eyes, and a cup of luke warm coffee which she had hardly taken a sip out of in her hand. It was free housing, the best that the charities they had contacted could provide, and like everything else they got what they paid for. Jake could just make out the sound of shouting several floors below him, and police sirens somewhere in the distance. He stretched out his legs and walked over to the table, sitting in the chair beside Cortana.

"Nightmare?" she asked, her eyes not leaving the crib where Jack slept.

"Yeah," Jake said. "You?" Cortana nodded her head slowly. Above them the ceiling thundered as what sounded like an entire dresser had been upturned and slammed onto the floor followed by a serious of undecipherable screaming. "We need to get out of here."

"I know," Cortana said, her voice laden with fatigue. "How much?" Jake reached under the table and reached into Roland's satchel, pulling out a small leather purse, what the gunslinger had called a grow bag.

Jake tipped the bag over and seven gold coins fell into his open palm, "It's enough to get us started.

"And you are sure it will grow back?"

"Yes," Jake said, dumping the gold back into the leather pouch. "But it might take up to a year to get the same amount, and I know gold isn't worth as much now as it is during my time period." He wrapped his fingers into the thickness of his blonde hair, wanting more than anything to go upstairs and make sure that they would no longer have to listen to that incessant noise. "We could get an apartment if we wanted to though."

"Not till I find a job," Cortana said. "I want a reliable income, and we don't know how much longer that thing will work." Jake nodded. Cortana did have a point. The grow bag had worked well for centuries in mid-world, but that reality went by an entirely different rule set from the world they were currently residing in. They had no idea if the magic of the grow bag would hold. Plus there were other reasons, "We need to save anything we collect from it. Just in case." The reasoning did not have to be explained, both Jake and Cortana fully aware that the agents of North Central Positronics and Sombra were still very much active. The writer had promised they would be safe, but had given no specific reason as to why, and so both of them were taking caution as the better part of valor.

But there were more things to worry about, enough to make Jake's head spin every time he thought about it. Even with Cortana being fully human, with all the mental fallacies that came with it, she was still likely the smartest person on the planet at this moment in time. Still, because of her gender her brains would not be something many employers would factor into the equation, most of them probably more interested in the curves of her body. More than anything Cortana needed to earn a High School diploma, or at the very least a GED if she was ever going to gain any type of meaningful employment. The work for earning one would certainly be trivial, but the biggest problem was the time it would take and the money. Then there was a college degree to worry about, all while balancing one or two jobs, possibly even three while at the same time raising a child. Then of course there was everything she would have to do to even begin that process, forging both her and Jake's birth certificates, social security numbers, somehow forging the records for John's service in the Navy during World War II, the records for their parents and the parents before them, all of that just so that they could attempt to live a normal life. Jake had no idea how she was going to do it, had no idea why John thought him capable of helping her. He had said that he had been the best out of the entire ka-tet, a notion Jake thought was insane at best. Jake could see the logic behind saying that he was better than Callahan, Susannah, and Eddie, but he had always thought that Roland, Cortana, and the Master Chief were several leagues above his own abilities. He was overwhelmed, feeling completely out of his league, and John had entrusted him with what mattered most to the Spartan.

"School is starting in a week," Cortana's statement cut through the haze of Jake's thoughts and self doubt. "We need to get you ready for it."

"There isn't really anything I can learn in school," Jake said, looking at his hands, the deepest recesses of his fingernails still holding the dust and dirt from mid-world. "I wouldn't even fit in there."

"You're going," Cortana said, firming up her voice as best she could. She brought the coffee up to her lips and briefly tasted it. A moment of disgust crossed her face and she quickly set the mug of coffee back down. "Both of you are going to have a normal life."

Jake looked up at her, noting the distant gaze on Cortana's face, the weariness and fatigue, "If he is what you say he is, do you really think he can have a normal life?"

Cortana stretched her fingers across the handle of the mug, reaffirming her grip, "It doesn't matter what he is, and I don't care. I just need to keep things together till his father comes back."

"And if he doesn't?" Jake asked, and immediately regretted saying it. Cortana shot him a glare, one he had seen several times but never directed at him. He glanced away quickly, suddenly becoming interested in his hands again.

From the crib Jack started crying, the sob a low whimper. "I'll get him," Jake said, moving across the room before Cortana could voice her protest. He reached the crib and immediately smelled the dirty diaper as he picked Jack up into his arms, the responsibility of caring for the infant still weighing heavily on his shoulders like a large boulder had just been placed into his hands. With Jack balanced in one arm he fished into the dresser for a towel. Finding one he unfolded it neatly onto the bed and began the process of changing his diaper, Cortana's eyes falling heavily onto his back.

Once he was done Cortana stretched her arms out, Jack still whimpering as Jake placed him tenderly into her embrace. She placed the infant on her shoulder and rubbed his back gently, Jake sitting back down in his seat.

Her now grey blue eyes pierced through the darkness, finding Jake's sky blue ones, "You're not his father."

"I know," Jake said. "But I'm going to have to do for now."

Cortana shook her head sadly, "You are still just a kid."

Jake let out a slow sigh, like yellow pages turning in a long forgotten book, "I stopped being a kid a long time ago."

**A/N: A bit short but I still think it works as one chapter. **

**The story is still progressing in my head, and I can already tell it is not going to turn out exactly how I originally planned. For example I just came up with an idea a few days ago (It literally just popped into my head out of nowhere) that I'm sure none of you are going to see coming. So expect that. Also for all of you mathematicians out there I calculated how much money Cortana and Jake have from Roland's grow bag. Assuming that the seven coins contain one ounce of pure gold each they are collectively worth $242.97 in 1945 which, factoring in inflation, is $3058.79 in today's money, and as I'm sure many of you know that kind of money does not last too long in the real world. **

**Also, I want to do a quick poll of who your favorite villain has been so far in the series, why you they are your favorite villain, and how you think they compare against Halo's villains. Please leave your opinions in the reviews and also make sure to tell me what you thought about the chapter. **


	5. Chapter 5: Baby Steps

Chapter 5: Baby Steps

7:30 P.M., November 1st 1946 (Gregorian Calendar) Hell's Kitchen, New York, New York

10 17 42

Cortana spun the dial to the correct numbers on the lock in the mail room of her apartment building, expertly balancing two bags of groceries on her hip. While she could have certainly asked to have lived in a better neighborhood, the ethnic and racial tensions in Hell's Kitchen threatening to reach the boiling point on an almost daily basis and crime a constant companion, the apartment building itself was an oasis of calm in the otherwise turbulent storm of the city. The tenants were mostly Irish, mostly Catholic, and were quick to point out that Cortana's last name was Dutch in origin. However, other than a few ethnic jabs that Cortana did not fully understand the three of them were mostly left alone. There was also one other none Irish tenant in the building, the person who had been the main influence for Cortana choosing to move here.

She wore a white apron with the words Tom and Jerry's Artistic Deli embroidered across the front in a bright green, the restaurant where she had found work as a waitress. She found the job to be mind numbingly boring and simplistic, but it helped to pay the bills and for right now that was enough for her. With a flick of her finger she popped the latch on the mailbox, frowning as she caught sight of the rust on the hinges. There was a single large white envelope inside, and Cortana's heart went a few beats faster when she saw that it was from the New York State Department of Health. She set the groceries down and took the time to open the envelope, carefully making sure that she did not tear it needlessly as she did. Inside were four pieces of thick brown paper with words written in dark black type writer ink on the front of them, and Cortana read the piece of paper that was on top.

State of New York

Department of Health

Division of Vital Statistics

Albany

This is to Certify That a Birth Certificate Has Been Filed For

John Roland Toren

Born on August 15th 1945 at New York, N.Y.

Father: John Eric Toren

Mother (maiden name): Cortana Miranda Halsey

Cortana felt a smile tug her lips which were painted with a soft pink lipstick. She fanned the other birth certificates out, seeing that hers, Jake's, and John's were also there, all of them looking just as genuine as the real thing. Carefully she placed them inside one of the grocery bags before hefting both of them back into her arms, bracing herself mentally for the climb up to the twelfth floor.

…

Jack had both of his tiny hands propped firmly on the coffee table in what served as the living room to the modest sized two bedroom, one bath apartment, his already strong arms holding up the rest of his body as he stood on two legs. The radio situation next to the three person faded brown couch enraptured much of his attention. He loved the speaking box, loved hearing the voices that came out of it, the device powered by what his mind could only conceive of as magic. Gingerly he ventured to remove his right hand from the table and stuck it out towards the radio, and then clenched into a fist. The radio burst into static and then cut off, Jack's eyes widening as it did. He opened his fist and the radio cut back on, causing Jack to giggle as the funny voices came back to life. Jake watched him from the kitchen which was separated from the living room only by the place where white tile met blue carpet, smiling as Jack began to babble in that unique language reserved only for babies and toddlers before closing his fist again and shutting the radio back off.

The door to the apartment open and Jack spun his head around, his face lighting up as Cortana came through, "Mama."

Cortana quickly placed the grocery bags on the kitchen counter and rushed over to Jack, sweeping him up in her arms and squeezing him tightly, planting a delicate kiss on his temple. "Mommy's got to put groceries away then I'll be right back to play with you okay?"

"Kay," Jack said, placing three of his fingers into his mouth as Cortana set him back down on the floor.

"How was work?" Jake asked, digging into the grocery bag closest to him.

"Dull," Cortana replied. "And school?"

"Same," Jake said. "I never really liked it much to begin with."

"You have to have made some friends," Cortana said, and Jake simply shook his head. Cortana closed her eyes briefly and pulled the second bag towards her. "I have some good news. The lawyer finally came through."

Jake arched an eyebrow, "You mean the shady back alley bottom of the barrel lawyer who most likely has clients in organized crime?"

"Yes that one," Cortana said, trying to hide her amusement at Jake's sarcasm. "Say what you want about him, and most of it would probably be true, but he does do good work."

"Only cost us one human soul," Jake said dryly, pulling the birth certificates out of the second bag, flipping through them.

Cortana eyed him intently, two green apples balanced in her right hand, as Jake read them, "I hope you don't mind but I had him use your biological parents." Jake shrugged his shoulders, flipping to the next certificate. After reading the names on it he looked up at her, "Jacob Keyes as your father?"

Cortana sighed, placing the two apples on the counter, "Not exactly a father figure to me, but it was the only person I could think of, the only man I knew Halsey had a prolonged relationship with. If you are going to tell a lie it is best to mix in as much truth as possible. The dark man taught me that much."

"I guess," Jake said, returning his attention back to the certificate. "But how are you going to explain why his last name is Keyes and your maiden name was Halsey?"

"Divorce," Cortana said. "I figured it would be smart to add in a little family drama to our back story." She glanced quickly back into the living room to check on Jack, only to find the grey bluish hues sticking to what she as seeing. "Jake!" The fourteen year old boy turned around, eyes following in the direction Cortana was pointing. At the coffee table Jack was still holding himself up by one arm, but now he had inched himself to the very corner of the table and was only gripping it by the edge of his finger tips. Rushing the few strides that brought her five feet away from her son Cortana got down on two knees, reaching her arms out to him, "Come on Jack you can do it. Come to mommy." Jack's fingers slipped away from the coffee table, his legs swaying as he attempted to balance himself on two feet. Shakily, but confidently, he took the first step towards his mother.

4:02 P.M., November 1st 1946 (Gregorian Calendar) Hell's Kitchen, New York, New York

He was greeted by a bright smile from Rosalita Mendez's face as she opened the door to her own apartment, two floors below the one that they were renting. She worked night shifts at the hospital which allowed her to babysit Jack while Cortana worked and Jake went to school, thought Jake guessed that the biggest reason why Cortana choose her as a sitter was because the nurse had a knack for knowing when not to ask too many questions.

"So how is the best nephew in New York doing today?"

"Fine," Jake said, giving his usually response as he walked through the door, Rosalita immediately going to the kitchen to fix him a snack, Jake having long given up refusing the offer. He spotted Jack sitting on the floor of the living room, the set up of Rosalita's apartment almost exactly like the one they lived in, the child playing with a set of wooden blocks with capital letter written in red, green, and yellow painted on them. He sat down next to him, realizing that the four blocks he had been playing with spelled out a name.

JACK

Jake picked up the C block and removed it from the other four, Jack's face souring in response, "No." Jake raised his eyebrows at him. No seemed to be his favorite word, the word Jake heard most often from him. He slid the K block over next to the C block, then grabbed a block with the letter E on it and placed it on the end. Jack reached out a hand and ran his fingers over the blocks, his lips moving as he attempted to figure out the word. "Ake!"

Jake smiled, and from the kitchen Rosalita looked up, two pieces of bread, and open jar of peanut butter on the counter, and a butter knife in her hand. "How many words is that?"

"Ten," Jake said, watching as Jack began to stack the blocks on top of one another, realizing that he was making a tower. "He can speak ten words." _And that's not counting the number of words he can read. _ Jack finished the tower, seven blocks stacked on top of one another. Jake was about to compliment him on it when Jake wound both of his arms back and with a single thrust knocked the tower over, giggling as he watched the blocks tumble to the ground.

Jake, dismayed, picked up one of the blocks and tried to reconstruct the tower, but as soon as he took his hand off of it Jack smacked it away, "No."

"He's growing up so fast," Rosalita said, suddenly intently focused on the process of making a sandwich. "Too fast."

Jake felt his mind attempt to penetrate Rosalita's thoughts, the empathy he easily felt for her and most people the key witch turned the lock of the human mind for him, and forcefully pulled it back. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, it's just," she placed the knife down on the counter and ran a hand through her hair. "He took his first steps today." Jake froze, his eyes unblinking. "I'm sorry, I know how much it meant to Cortana for her to see that."

"It's not your fault," Jake said.

Rosalita's was still in pain, "I don't know how I'm going to tell her."

"We don't," Jake said, watching as her face turned from anguish, into confusion. "We don't have to tell her anything. She thought for a few moments, and then nodded. Jack still sat there, oblivious to the importance of the conversation, as he began to stack the blocks on top of one another once more.

…

8:11 P.M., November 1st 1946 (Gregorian Calendar) Hell's Kitchen, New York, New York

It took eight determined steps for Jack to reach Cortana's arms, and as soon as he neared them she sucked him into her warm embrace, holding him against her as tightly as she could, "I was so worried I would miss this."

"You didn't," Jake said, Cortana nodding as she felt the moisture build up in her eyes. He felt a slight twinge of guilt, but dismissed it as soon as he recognized it. Just to see that smile on her face he would make that same lie a thousand times over.

Cortana planted several kisses on Jack's forehead and cheek's, "You are getting so big you know that?" She swept her fingers through his thick black hair, trying her best to make it look somewhat presentable, and failing miserably. "I only wish your father was here see this."

"Dada," Jack said, pushing away from Cortana and attempting to stand on his own again. His legs began to wobble and he reached out for support, Cortana holding his hand so that he would not fall.

"Yes, your daddy." Cortana pulled him back into her, rubbing her hands along his back, "You know he loves your very much right?" Jack shook his head against her shoulder, "And I know he would give anything to be here with you right now."


	6. Chapter 6: The Roswell Incident

Chapter 6: The Roswell Incident

_I have no feelings, truthfully. My association with MJ-12 has left me dead inside. I feel myself still cold and calculating. I never let anyone get close to me. I feel like a human robot. I have killed mercilessly and lied for the good of the country. _

_Colonel Steve Wilson on his alleged association with Majestic 12, formed shortly after the Roswell Incident _

…

1700 Hours, July 7th 1947 (Gregorian Calendar) Roswell, New Mexico

General Roger Ramsey felt the first bead of sweat run down from his forehead to the base of his neck. Pulling out a tan handkerchief he dabbed at his face, doing his best to keep the sweat from wilting the perfectly pressed color of his military uniform, he scanned the faces of the men around him. It was a small detachment from the 508th Division of the Army Air Forces, no more than a dozen soldiers and the Jeeps that had carried them to the crash site, all of them keeping a wary eye out for any locals that might wander into the area . He was an older man of average build with a thin black mustache and neatly groomed black hair which had been combed and parted with the meticulousness that only came after years of military service, much of it spent debunking the very phenomena he had come to investigate.

It was not exactly dread or nervousness he was feeling, but more a sense of heightened anticipation as he waited with an increasing amount of impatience for the so called expert to arrive. He had heard about them, what the rumor mill had dubbed the men in black, government agents who seemed to have an unlimited amount of authority, men who could bend and break the law at will all in the name of national security. There were some that said that they answered to J. Edgar Hoover, Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and arguably the most powerful man in the country, others that they answered only to the President, and still others that they answered to no one. Out of all of those options Ramsey was willing to bet that the last one was most likely.

It had started as early as 1944 when American pilots running night time bombing raids over Germany reported seeing strange lights moving at inhuman speeds, performing feats of aerial acrobatics that should have killed any occupants inside with the amount of G-force produced, if indeed they were air craft. They were nicknamed foo-fighters, and the initial belief among the Allied High Command was that they were secret German air craft. Of course, as Ramsey himself would come to find out, the Germans had never been close to making such an air craft. The end of the war did not bring an end to the sightings, at least not entirely, and so Ramsey had found himself recruited, although to his dismay his appointed task was not to discover what these mysterious object were, but rather to make sure that the public believed they did not exist. Today, however, his luck seemed to have turned.

He sighed with relief as he saw an all black Plymouth rise out of the haze of heat in the distance, the car lazily pulling up to the General's entourage. The only thing Ramsey could note about the man that stepped out of the car, other than his black suit and dark sunglasses, was that he was completely unremarkable. Even years later Ramsey had trouble remembering what he looked like. His features, his build, his accent, his height, even the way he moved, everything about him was generic, as if he was specifically chosen for a unique ability to blend into any crowd imaginable.

Agent Smith, a man that did not technically exist, extended his right hand out to Ramsey, giving a handshake that was just as unremarkable as his appearance if that could even be possible, "General."

Ramsey nodded his head, "Mr. Smith."

Smith looked over the General's shoulder at the soldiers that surrounded the crash site, the crater digging deep into the soft ground, "I trust that these men can keep a secret."

"I picked them out myself," Ramsey said, doing his best to keep his voice from sound indignant.

"But that does not mean that they can be trusted," Smith replied. There was no smugness or arrogance in his voice, and the absence of it irritated Ramsey more than if it had been there. "I hope you have reviewed the first contact protocol."

"Of course."

Smith nodded, "Then I'll let you make the introductions, assuming the thing is still alive."

"I'm honored," Ramsey replied dryly.

Smith smiled, "I'll let you in on a little secret. If my organization had the man power we desire the military would not be involved in this investigation at all. However, I do know better than to try and bruise a general's ego."

"And what organization would that be?" Ramsey asked. His tone was sarcastic, but he was truly curious, and Smith did not disappoint with his answer.

"Depends on what day it is," he widened his smile, his teeth bleach white and perfectly straight. He gestured with an open hand towards the crater, "Shall we?" Not waiting for the General to reply he moved towards the crash site, Ramsey following quickly behind, frowning as the dust and dirt began to cover his neatly shined dress shoes.

Smith squatted down beside the object and removed his sunglasses, revealing his eyes to be a green hazel. It was humanoid in shape though far taller than any man Smith had ever known. It was clad in thick green armor, its helmeted head sporting a single orange visor which reflected the sun violently, its arms rigidly reaching towards the sky. An orange mucus coated much of the armor, and Smith ventured a hand outward and rested it on the Spartan's chest plate. "Still warm," he muttered. "Was there any reentry vehicle?"

Ramsey shoot his head as he knelt beside Smith, "No, but we think he fell from orbit."

"Are you sure?" Smith asked, not taking his eyes off of the MJOLNIR clad giant but still arching an eyebrow.

"Yes. We tracked his descent from radar the moment he entered the atmosphere." He rapped a knuckle asked one of the Spartan's outstretched arms. "My guess is that he some sort of robot. Don't think the Soviets could have made anything like this?"

Smith chuckled lightly, "If the Red's can engineer this kind of machine then we might as well quit while we are ahead." He removed his hand from the chest plate and traced a finger over a deep gash in the armor running from the shoulder to the abdomen, "Battle scars. This thing has seen combat, and recently."

"A war machine," Ramsey stated, eyes roaming every inch of the armored beast. "So much for coming in peace."

"I don't think we have to worry about them, at least not as much as we have to worry about who they were fighting." Smith removed his hand from the green armored Spartan and rocked back on his heels. "Much more humanoid then I would have anticipated. This could be man made."

"Man made? But you just said that the Soviets…"

"I did not discount that they could make something like this," Smith corrected. He shook his head, "But I don't think that they did make it. No, this thing certainly came from another world, but I am almost certain humans made it."

Ramsey was about to ask another question when he bit his tongue. What Smith was saying made absolutely no sense, but then again he had not expected anything less from a spook like him, and Ramsey had a feeling that the more he asked the more convoluted that answers would become if they even came at all.

Smith's gaze fell to a gash across the abdomen. It was much smaller than the damage done to the chest plate, but he could see a type of white foam seeping out of it. Reaching into the pocket of his black suit Smith pulled out a pair of gloves. After placing them on his hands he traced a finger across the wounded abdomen and held the white foam up to his face.

"What is it," Ramsey asked, staring intently at the foam.

"I don't know," Smith said, rubbing the mixture between his thumb and index finger. He looked down at the Spartan then, and his eyes caught something on the right side of the chest plate. It almost looked like letters, but he could not make out what it said under the thick layers of orange mucus. Just as he was about to wipe the mucus the Spartan's arms moved from their locked position and thudded to the ground. Both Smith and Ramsey stood up, taking several steps away as the green giant slowly worked its way to its feet. It stood a full head taller than either of them, and Ramsey felt the first twinge of fear race up his spine. Around him he heard the raising of rifles and safety's being flicked off, and out of pure instinct he reached for his own side arm. Smith's hand stopped him from drawing it, the Agent waving his other hand at the dozen soldiers surrounding the impact crater, "Stand down." One by one the soldiers reluctantly lowered their rifles, while the looks of panic and dread still hung on their faces. Smith removed his hand from Ramsey's gun and patted the general on the shoulder, "Alright, it's your show now."

Ramsey glanced over at Smith, and then back at the Spartan. The man, or robot, or death machine; Ramsey was still not sure what to call it, stood like a statue, its head tilted down slightly as if it were checking something. The General took a tentative step forward and cleared its throat loudly, the sweat pouring down his neck even more profusely as the Spartan looked up at him as if seeing the General for the first time. "On behalf of the Government of the United States of America and the United Nations I welcome you to Earth." The words sounded stupid even as he said them, and he wondered what idiot had come up with them, or even why they had expected extra terrestrials to even understand the English language. Nevertheless Ramsey extended his hand, preparing a powerful wince for when and if the creature ever accepted the shake.

Instead the Spartan looked around, eyeing the soldiers with their M-1s, their fingers still twitching towards the triggers, analyzing each potential threat. Returning his attention to the General the Spartan spoke, his voice raspy and sounding like it was barely ever used, "What year?"

Ramsey blinked, the question coming with such unexpectedness that for a few moments his mouth refused to work. Coughing loudly again he replied, "1947."

The Spartan nodded slowly, and just as he was about to take his first step towards the general his malfunctioning armor seized up again. His legs and arms locked into position and the Spartan fell forwards. With an agility he had not experienced since he was a much younger man Ramsey dodged the falling giant which crashed into the ground with enough force to shake the dirt underneath his shoes, sending up a small cloud of dust.

Agent Smith walked towards the Spartan, his mind racing and heart pumping faster with each passing second. "We need to get him out of here." The General, still shaken, gave him a look of momentary confusion. "Call in heavy lift gear."

"Where exactly can we take him?" Ramsey asked, once again grabbing his handkerchief and wiping the torrents of sweat off of his face.

"I know a place," Smith said, a small smirk appearing. "It's a bit like me. Technically it doesn't exist."


	7. Chapter 7: Dreamland

Chapter 7: Dreamland

Department of the Air Force

Washington D.C. 20330-1000

Office of the Secretary

Dear **NAME REDACTED**,

This responds to your letter to the Secretary of the Air Force regarding "Area 51."

Neither the Air Force nor the Department of Defense own or operates any location known as "Area 51." There are a variety of activities, some of which are classified, throughout what is often called the Air Force's Nellis Range Complex. There is an operating location near Groom Dry Lake. Specific activities and operations conducted on the Nellis Range, both past and present, remain classified and cannot be discussed publicly.

We hope this information is helpful.

Sincerely

Jeffrey A. Rammes, Major USAF

Chief White House Inquiry Branch

Office of Legislative Liaison

…

1942 Hours, July 9th 1947 (Gregorian Calendar) Area 51, Nellis Range Complex, Nevada

Agent Smith smiled as he walked through the steel plated door, giving the most charming expression he could muster in order to hide his burning curiosity of the man sitting in the room. He had left him there alone for nearly five hours in a room with concrete walls, floor, and ceiling, with little more than a wooden table and two chairs to keep him occupied. He had left the door to the interrogation room unlocked, had even made a show of demonstrating how easy it would be for him to escape the facility by posting only one inadequately armed guard at the door, and yet the man had not moved, sitting in nearly the exact same position that Smith had left him in.

This man from the grim darkness of the far flung future was curious, and Smith could not wait to find out who, or more specifically what he was.

Halfway to the table Smith flung a manila envelope onto its surface, causing a small world wind of air and a gasp of sound as it impacted. He took his sunglasses off and folded them neatly into the front shirt pocket of his black suit, taking much more time than necessarily to find a comfortable position in his chair. Most people would have been unnerved with the absence of expression on the Spartan's face, without even the trace of annoyance at the Agents antics meant specifically to elicit a response, but Smith was not a normal man and to him the lack of any reaction absolutely delighted him. He loved a challenge.

With a single finger he opened up the envelope, and his voice tore through the mist of silence, "We estimate that you fell approximately three kilometers. Scared the hell out of the locals down in Roswell." He flicked his eyes up and met the faded blue eyes of the Spartan, noting that the man seemed to be examining him, and Smith had no doubt that the man's mind was running through all the possible ways he could kill him. "Don't worry, I had the good general leak a story that the military recovered a flying disk, and then issue the official story that the crash was nothing more than a downed weather balloon. People will be fighting over what really happened at Roswell for decades, and meanwhile the truth will be kept safe in the loving arms of the Federal Government." He smiled at his own sarcasm. With his thumb and forefinger he picked up a document from the envelope and held it to his face, "It is a good thing we found you when we did. Your injuries were rather extensive. Unfortunately in an attempt to remove your armor we ended up damaging most of it."

He felt a wave of ice wash over him and he chanced a look back into the Spartan's eyes. The calculating stare was still there, and although the man had no so much as twitched an eyebrow somehow the stare had grown more intense. "Well you did not exactly pack an instruction manual on how to remove it did you? I assure you we did our best." He returned his attention back to the document, "Of course when the doctors were performing surgery on you they found a few…" He flicked his hand once and the document folded out into three sections, spilling onto the table and dangerously close to his lap, "Anomalies." He turned the document over to face the Spartan, "Care to explain?" The Spartan did not respond, did not even bother to look at the medical report, his eyes still fixed on Smith. "Didn't think so," the Agent said, placing the report back into the envelope. Closing it he leaned forward and leaned his forearms on the table, clasping his hands together, "But we do need to start somewhere. What is your name?"

"Lieutenant Junior Grade Spartan 104 of the UNSC."

"Name rank and serial number," Smith said. "Understandable, but I assure you that you are not a prisoner of war. I prefer to think of you as an honored guest." He unfolded his hands and leaned back in his chair, "Of course Spartan is hardly a name is it? No I think that is the name of the unit you were in, which of course brings me to another subject." A single thin eyebrow raised, complimenting the smile he was still wearing, "There has been a bit of a bet going on amongst me and my colleagues. UNSC would not happen to stand for United Nations Security Council would it?"

"No," Fred said. He found the man at the very least interesting, a man who feigned time wasting stupidity and used it as an interrogation technique.

"Knew it," Smith said in his from now where accent. In some ways Fred reminded Smith of himself. He was taller than average, but at 6'7'' he was not abnormally tall like he had been in that armor, and with the exception of the streaks of silver in his black hair his appearance was average, perhaps even plain. He was muscular, but overly so, and Smith was sure that if he worked on it the Spartan could actually manage to look like something other than the cold killer he actually was. To find exceptional people was one thing, but to find exceptional people who could pull off looking and acting unexceptional, now that was tricky. _Yes, _Smith thought. _He could end up being very useful._

"So what does UNSC stand for?" Fred hesitated on answering, and although he did not show the reluctance Smith still picked it up. "I'm sure that wherever you are from they are not going to hang you for treason because you told us what the abbreviations mean."

Fred did not exactly smile, but his face did seem to soften and his lips grew distinctly less thin, "You would be surprised."

"I'm sure I would," Smith said, returning his attention to the contents of the envelope. He ran his finger down one of the documents and stopped midway across the paper, "I believe it means United Nations Space Command." Now Fred did show his emotions, Smith catching his pupils widening, "You are not the first thing we have recovered from the UNSC Lieutenant, although you are certainly the first living specimen." He tilted his head to the right, his own brown hair staying rigidly in place as he moved, "What year are you from."

Fred hesitated a few seconds longer than he did before, but eventually gave his answer, "2560"

Smith nodded, "Approximately six hundred years in the future. I don't know about you but I don't know that much about what life was like six hundred years in the past. Which makes us come to something I'm very curiously about." From beneath the table he crossed his legs, making sure that his shoe clad toe did not accidently brush up against the Spartan, "Why you have not tried to escaped." He held up his hand in a needless gesture for Fred to remain quiet, "I think I know the reason why. Let's not kid ourselves in thinking that you could not escape because we both know that you could if you wanted to, and yet you have remained here despite my best efforts to make you want to leave. My only conclusion is that you have no other place to go. Rudimentary knowledge of this time period at best and absolutely no understanding of how society and culture works. No, you are staying here because this is a military setting, and that is what you are most comfortable in. You were probably raised in the military, know absolutely nothing else even in your own time period. In that suit of yours I'm sure you could rain down fire and brimstone like an vengeful god, but out of it and in a crowd full of strangers in a where and when you know nothing about you are just as vulnerable as the rest of us." He folded his hands together and placed them behind his head, "Or am I wrong?"

Fred was silent. The man was good, he had to give him that. With the little information he had given him, all falling with the boundaries of UNSC regulation, Smith had been able to extrapolate much more information that Fred had original planned to reveal. Of course there was the small nagging thought in the back of his head which wondered if the UNSC was still standing, and yet another thought which said that being trapped in the past made that query nonsensical. Fred shook his head, at least mentally. Smith was right, the reason he had stayed willingly in the custody of the United States Government was because he had nowhere else to go. He could escape, could do so easily even if an entire division had been tasked with guarding him, but the question remained where would he go from there, and more importantly how he would get back to his own time period.

"I take it I'm right," Smith said, watching the storm of emotion rage across Fred's eyes. The eyes were the window to the soul, and nobody no matter how well trained could hide their emotions from them. "Well," he sat up and scooped up the envelope with his left hand. "Let's go see it." Fred followed Agent Smith out of the room with his gaze, the unanswered question lingering in the air. "You better hurry," the Agent quickly checked his watch while his head hung out of the doorway. "The ship leaves in about half an hour." And with that he left, the door wide open, Fred left to stare into its empty frame.

"Hell," the Spartan muttered under his breath and stood up, exiting the room.


	8. Chapter 8: The Spartan and the Nazi

Chapter 8: The Spartan and the Nazi

The walk through the labyrinth of corridors underneath the Groom Lake facility was silent, Fred noting that even the sounds of their footsteps seem muffled. Every corridor was identical, the doors on either side of the hallways always closed with no numbers or identification of any kind above their frames. To Fred it seemed like a much more primitive version of an ONI facility, relying heavily on disorientation to help thwart any unwanted intruder. He did his best to keep track of every abrupt turn Agent Smith made and felt that at the very least he would be able to make it back to the interrogation room using only his mental map. Occasionally the hairs on his arms would stand up and he could feel the rising static electricity in the air, only for it to disappear as soon as they turned into a different corridor. Eventually they reached a dead end and Fred was faced with a door that was just as unassuming as all the others he had encountered. Agent Smith pulled out a single silver key and placed it within the lock, the door gliding with precise grace as he held it open for the Spartan. Fred stepped through, sensing first the unique smell of grease, oil, and fuel that only an aircraft hanger possessed, and then the immense space of the hanger itself. It was empty, looking very much like a construction retail store that had been cleared out of all its wares, except for the object and the people swarming around it in the middle of the vast expanse.

Fred stopped in his tracks, pupils expanding as he watched the engineers and scientists in their pristine white lab coats move around the gutted ship with the effect of controlled chaos. The guts of the ship itself were splayed across blue tarps, men stooped over them with clip boards, their hands writing furiously as other men prodded the parts with machines that made them look very much like cave men prodding a car that had been flung back into the past with sticks, and Fred guessed that in the end that's what they really were.

"Beauty isn't it?" Smith said as he moved to stand beside Fred. "Just recovered her this morning from the ship. Based on what we learn from this baby the United States will be able to develop a whole new generation of stealth aircraft. Blow anything the Reds will be able to produce out of the water." His smile faded into a small frown, "Unless the reports we have on what really happened at the Tunguska Event turn out to be true." He craned his neck upwards so that he could look at the face of the Spartan beside him, "Recognize it?"

Fred nodded, "GA-TL1 Longsword-class Interceptor."

"See," Smith said, nudging Fred in the shoulder and causing the Spartan to stiffen. "Sharing information isn't that hard."

"I figured that if you already had it taken apart and were studying it, then me telling you its name won't make a difference," Fred said. He continued to survey team, one man catching his attention. He appeared to be in charge, directing those under him with the precision of a military commander, making sharp gestures with his hand and speaking in a voice loud enough for Fred to hear him across the room. He was tall, a few inches over six feet, with a slim athletic build, a healthy mane of blonde hair, eyes the color of Pacific blue, and deceptively handsome with a charming smile that hid his true nature. The man's eyes met Fred and a wide grin spread across his face, and with a hurrying gate he moved across the hanger towards him. With a turn of his head the man shouted a few more commands over his shoulder, and the language that he used was…

"German," Smith said. "Every last one of them is German. We have enough Nazis hold up here to start a Fourth Reich if we wanted to." He breathed in deeply and let it out as he watched the blonde hair man approach them, "Fortunately we don't. We nabbed as many of them as we could over the past few years before the Soviets could get their hands on them. We need them, badly, especially if our country is going to compete technologically. Unfortunately old habits die hard for a lot of them, and this guy that's coming towards us is one of the worst."

The blonde hair man stopped briskly in front of the pair, his heels clicking together as he did, "Is this him?" His accent was mostly gone when he spoke, but still held that distinct central European edge to it.

"Need to know Milch," Smith said with a hint of warning, folding his arms across his chest. "How many times do we have to go over this?"

"It is him then," Milch said, giving no effort to contain his awe, his eyes only on Fred. He took a moment to scan the Spartan from head to toe, and Fred felt a wave of uneasiness follow on the heels of it. Not because he viewed the man as a threat, but for other reasons, reasons he could not yet fully define. "You are very much like that marvelous aircraft. Beautifully designed, a master work of engineering, and not an ounce of wasted potential. Your hair is not blonde, but that can be easily overlooked."

"Milch…" Agent Smith began, the warning in his voice growing more potent.

Milch shot Smith a look of disgust at the man's apparent ignorance of what was so obvious to him, "Do you not understand what this man is?" He turned his attention back to Fred, "This is eugenics taken to its logical conclusion. What the Fuhrer always dreamed of. A race of supermen."

"As much as I enjoy you lecturing on how best to propagate the master race, it's not what we pay you for."

Milch furrowed his eyebrows at smith, his lips forming a hard frown, "You don't pay me anything."

"Three meals a day. A much better deal then what you would have had in Nuremburg wouldn't you agree?"

"Perhaps. At least there I wouldn't have had to deal with you." He nodded his head towards Fred, "We will speak further on this. The more I learn about the UNSC…" He looked at the floor and smiled before bringing his head back up, "Old memories." He gave an about face and left as briskly as he came. Smith eyed Fred. The Spartan seemed, well shaken might be the best word, but Smith felt that term did not apply to that man. He had always been able to read people, a gift that had served him well in his chosen career, and Fred's lack of facial expressions were not enough to hide his emotions from the Agent. Yes the Spartan was effected by the conversation, and that knowledge spiked Smith's curiosity even more.

"It's true isn't it?" Fred's head whipped around towards Smith. "At least part of it."

"It's complicated," he replied quietly.

"Moral ambiguity usually is." Smith headed towards one of the hanger's entrances and Fred followed behind him. "I have to ask, how much do you know about this time period?"

"A little," Fred replied. "We were taught about it mostly because of the formation of United Nations. Anything else we learned was geared towards military history."

"Military history," Smith repeated. "So I was right, you were raised in the military. Perhaps an academy of some kind from a very early age, though I'm sure that's not entirely right is it?"

"No," Fred said. He found his answers coming more freely now, although he still avoided an specific details. There was something about the Agent, something none of the ONI agents from his own time had. Again it was not a thing that Fred could describe easily. Perhaps it was just general likeability. He had mixed feelings when the Office of Navel Intelligence had been effectively dismantled when it was revealed that the organization was littered with Insurrectionist operatives all working at the behest of Randall Flagg. Even Serin Osman had been indicted for treason, although Fred was not sure if he fully believed the charges. While he had seen her as power hungry at best, much like her predecessor, he had held no doubt that she was ultimately loyal to humanity and the UNSC. But then again Lord Hood himself had ordered her arrest, and at the tribunal the evidence against her left no question as to her guilt. Yet something had always seemed off to him. The evidence was almost too perfect, too ironclad. What disturbed him more was that almost no effort had been made to replace ONI, leaving the UNSC effectively blind, at least what was left of it. As things grew progressively worse slipspace travel had become all but impossible, cutting off communication between Earth and her colonies, and the most disturbing aspect was that nobody could determine why it was happening. It was as if a cancer had been placed in the heart of the galaxy and was slowly eating away at everything that held existence together. Of course the remaining Spartan IIs and IIIs had been recalled back to Earth just before the complete failure of slipspace travel, and now that Fred had time and hindsight to reflect on everything that had happened he supposed he should have seen that as too much of a coincidence as well.

Then there was Operation Discordia. Fred closed his eyes briefly. If John had been there none of it would have happened. Fred had relegated himself to second best for a reason, even though he could have supplanted John as the best if he had wanted too. Something had always held him back. Fred thought that part of the reason was his own inner insecurities that he rarely acknowledged even to himself, but there was also something else. John just was a leader, and while Fred was fully capable of making good decisions and sometimes even better decisions, John just seemed to have that unique ability to make people believe in him. But John had died on the very planet he had been found on not seven months after he had recovered, but even then things had not been the same. There was no returning Blue Team to the way it was, not when Fred was now an officer and John was still an NCO, when military protocol would force Fred to be the leader over John.

_So much had changed, _Fred thought. _He had changed. It was like I hardly knew him anymore._

Yes, John had not been with them during Operation Discordia, and everything had fallen apart. One man had done it, had neutralized an entire team of Spartans, all without even raising a finger against him. Fred was still not sure about what he had seen, how much of it had been real, or even how Randall Flagg had been able to do the things that he had done, things that made no logical sense no matter what context Fred put them in. _Linda, Naomi, Tom, Lucy, _he ran their names through his mind. _Kelly, _he stopped on her name and his chest tightened. _She might still be alive._

He was not sure, had no way to be certain, but then again he had just witnessed a miracle not so long ago, had seen John, a man who had been dead, come back. Perhaps it was just a delusional mind hallucinating the person he had wanted to see most when fatigue and injury had finally worn down his body, but Fred believed, no he knew that what he had seen had been real.

That John had saved his life.

The short walk to the hanger entrance lengthened as Fred delved deeper into his own thoughts, remembering the last words his friend had spoken to him.


	9. Chapter 9: God of War Part One

Chapter Nine: God of War Part One (Operation Discordia)

1200 Hours, February 26th 2560 (Military Calendar) Las Vegas, North America, Earth

The man in black sat cross legged on the cold concrete floor in the massive antechamber. In a previous century it had been used as a storage facility for one of the many casinos that had sprouted like flowers in mid spring in the desert city, and still there were wooden crates scattered around the room, their contents long forgotten. Caesar's Palace it had been called, and while there were many dozens of versions of this casino strewn about the multitude of realities contained within The Dark Tower, this particular one had been owned by the Sombra Corporation, secret agents of The Crimson King in the business world which dated back to the time of the Old People, and it was underneath the ruins of this long forgotten hotel, which itself had been buried under several dozen feet of new construction, that the doorway stood.

The dark man sat with his back to the double wrought iron doorway, his eyes closed, attempting to achieve full lotus, a type of levitation. He partially succeeded and was able to hover a few inches off the ground. He did not give much thought to his failure, there was after all a lot on his mind. The doorway for instance. The Old People had built an innumerable amount of doorways across the man where's and when's of existence, but this particular gateway was rare. It was only the second one that Walter had ever come across, the first being deep within the bowels of Castle Discordia in mid-world, and it was his key to being able to defeat the UNSC's last remaining Spartans.

Be clever enough to make others think that you are more powerful than you actually are, this was a maxim that the dark man took to heart, and in that spirit he floated back to the ground and stood up, smiling at the sound of gunfire beyond the automatic doors in front of him. They were closing in on him, and swiftly, Walter having only prepared a token resistance, just enough to make sure the Spartans knew that they were in the right place. Randall Flagg, that was the name of the insurrectionist leader, which just so happened to also be him. He reveled in the use of his many names and faces, which next to his voice was his most potent weapon. The gunfire grew closer, and as it made its steady march towards him the dark man pulled out a device from within his black rob. It looked similar to a remote control, except it only had one large red button, and with a simple movement of his thumb Walter pressed it. A multitude of gears squeaked in unison as the mechanisms which kept the door permanently locked released themselves for the first time in ages, and Walter felt more than heard the beast on the other side press ever so slightly against the doorway.

The gunfire had stopped, and with quick deliberation the man in black moved into the center of the room, removing his hood and revealing his face. He was willing to skip the formalities this time. With the Ka-tet of the Nineteen spread across two different where's and when's Walter literally had years at his disposal to take down the UNSC, a failsafe just in case Cortana and John happened to survive, just to make sure that they did not have a home to go back too. It was petty, but Walter had never denied possessing the trait. Still his time was not unlimited, and the dark man preferred if he had this particular encounter over with as quickly as possible.

The automatic doors which were lit up with green highlights slid open noiselessly, and the man in black was not surprised to find that nobody appeared to be on the other side of the open doorway. There was a tinking sound, like a needle being dropped onto a hard granite floor with a microphone held up against it, and Walter saw a fragmentation grenade come rolling towards him. With a wave of his pale almost wax like hand he sent the grenade in the opposite direction. It exploded, sending as shower of sparks and shrapnel several meters in every direction, and it was on the cusp of this explosion that he Spartans entered.

Then fanned out naturally into a five meter spread as they entered the room, assault and battle riffles barking as the targeting reticules in their HUDs automatically found their target. Walter smiled as the bullets flew harmlessly passed him, watching as all five Spartans halted their advance, the fire of their weapons ceasing. He was impressed. Most soldiers would have kept firing their weapons until their magazines ran dry.

Fred stood in the middle of the formation, Kelly and Tom on his immediate right, Naomi and Lucy on his left. From Blue Team's communications channel he heard Kelly speak, "We can't hit him, scanners pick up anything?"

"Nothing," Naomi replied.

"Might be Forerunner Tech he's using," Fred said. He glanced over at Kelly, moving only his eyes, "Remember what happened on Victoria. This is probably a trap. Circle around him and keep your eyes open." With out a word the Spartans followed Fred's command, moving slowly around the dark man, rifles firmly on him. "Linda what's your status?"

"ETA five minutes," Linda replied. Fred sent a green status light back to her. She had the best eyes and the best aim of any Spartan, her skills with the sniper rifle making her the closest thing to a Spartan II lone wolf. If anyone could spot what the Insurrectionist Randall Flagg was using to deflect their bullets it would be her.

Walter could barely contain the chuckles as he watched the Spartans circle around him, feeling again the monstrosity pressing against the doorway. "Hile gunslingers." There was no response, just as he expected, although by the almost unperceivable movement of Fred's head he guessed they were talking privately with one another, no doubt asking why this man had called them by such an antiquated term like gunslinger.

He twisted his head behind to look at the Spartan directly behind him and said, "Naomi, how is your father doing? Well I hope." He snickered, and Naomi shifted her stance.

"How did he know?" she asked.

"ONI leak," Kelly replied. Her voice was flat, but Fred knew her well enough to hear the resentment in her voice. Mentally her groaned. He had hoped that the issue with Naomi's involvement with Dr. Halsey's arrest had been resolved, but apparently the wounds had not healed fully, and in the middle of the mission was the last place he wanted tensions to boil over. He sent a yellow status light to Kelly, a warning for her to play nice.

Walter turned to the two smallest Spartans, standing well over a foot below the Spartan II's, "Lucy, the quiet one. Tell me does it pain you to know that Tom saw all the same horrors that you did yet he is not nearly as traumatized by it as you are? Perhaps he is just a better Spartan than you." He grinned at the two Spartan III's, reveling in the glare Tom sent him. He continued his round of taunting. "Fred," he said, pausing on the leader. "The second best Spartan." He said the word second with such contempt that Fred felt his own cold anger bubble up with in him. The man in black flicked his eyes towards Kelly who had her assault rifle aimed firmly at his head, "Kelly." His grin became a soul violating leer.

"You loved him didn't you? And to think, after so many years of thinking that he was dead, of fearing that you would never see him again, he came back. Then, when you finally had the chance and the courage to tell him how you felt he rejected you." His smile was gone, replaced by a look Fred could only describe as pity, "I do feel sympathy for you, believe it or not. I wonder, did you still care enough about him to shed a tear when you saw his broken body, burned beyond recognition by the plasma mortar that struck him?"

Kelly's stance shifted, her grip on the rifle tightening to the point that the weapon threatened to snap in two, and Fred knew that it was only through a massive amount of willpower that she did not defy his orders and rush towards Randall Flagg, beating him until he was nothing more than a blood stain on the floor.

"Kelly…" he began, opening up private com channel with her.

"I'm fine," Kelly replied cutting him off.

Fred shifted his focus back to the dark man who was still talking, "Now where is Linda? We can't have a party without her can we?"

Linda's status light in Fred's HUD blinked green, and in the same instant the roar of her sniper rifle filled his ears, the massive round flying through the air, leaving a vapor trail behind it, and missing the man in black by several feet. Walter turned his head sharply as the round passed him, smiling as it ricocheted off of the doorway. "There she is."

Linda's status light blinked red twice. Fred could understand her frustration, felt it himself. She never missed, no matter what the circumstances. "I know," he said over the team com. "I have an idea. Kelly be ready for my signal." He inched towards the dark man, his battle rifle raised, moving heel to toe. The dark man watched the armored giant, easily a foot taller than him, move towards him.

"Do you know why you are here Fred?" he asked, not expecting the Spartan to answer him. "You are here because I wanted you to be, because this is my plan. You felt it didn't you, that there was something about this operation that was off." His full focus was on the Lieutenant who now stood only a foot or so away from him, mentally preparing himself for the blow he expected to come. "But you followed your orders anyway, just like the good little boy you are. Never mind that you stood back idly while our friend Naomi betrayed the woman that made you what you are…"

"Kelly, now," Fred said, and before Walter could speak his next words a green blur flashed towards him. He felt the pain before he saw her as Kelly's knee collided with his stomach. The dark man landed on the ground clutching his abdomen, air refusing to come back into his lungs. Kelly's armored hand forced him fully on the ground, the female Spartan kneeling beside him.

"Target secure," she said coldly, voice lacking any emotion.

_Only human, _Walter thought, scolding himself. _You can't forget that your only human. _For a brief moment he saw his entire plan unraveling before him, the beast beyond the door having forgotten to make its scheduled appearance. Then he felt it, a slight ringing of bells in his ears, and the sound renewed his hope. He tittered, then broke into a full maniacal giggle, and Fred tilted his head at him. "You are fast Kelly, faster than even I expected. But science is a false light no matter how fervently your mother believed in it, and all of your training, your weapons, your armor, your augmentations. None of it will be enough to save you." He began laughing again, and Fred was about to tell Kelly to shut him up when he began to hear the bells as well.

They were like church bells, mournful and sweet, and yet so beautiful that there sound was horrible to listen too, like an infant screaming into his mother's ear. The double iron doors shuttered as a massive object pressed against it, and the Spartan's twirled on their heels, Kelly holding her assault rifle in one hand while her other kept Walter pinned to the ground. The bells increased in their volume as the doorway continued to shutter, and then they stopped, filling the room with a silence that had a ringing unto itself.

The doors flew off their hinges, one of the iron gates screaming towards Fred's head, and he flattened himself onto the ground to avoid being hit. He only had a moment to see what came out from the other side. Three massive tentacles attached to an unseen creature, each of them several times the thickness of a man, thrusted themselves out of the Todash Tahken, that black void of nothingness between realities, and into material space. They were grey, covered in a thick silvery mucus, with a dark seam running underneath them. It was only for a moment that he saw him before he felt himself being dragged towards the hole in reality. His fingers clawed at the cement floor, and Fred curled his right hand into a fist and pounded into the floor, his shoulder jerking as he came to a stop. It was if someone had opened up an airlock on a ship, a force of suction that even a Spartan could withstand. Fred looked around for the rest of his Spartans, seeing only Kelly next to him, her fist similarly smashed into the concrete, firing her assault rifle at one of the tentacles, and Lucy several meters away still sliding on the floor. Naomi, Tom, and the dark man were nowhere to be found.

One of the larger tentacles reached out towards Lucy, the seam underneath of it opening up like a blooming flower and revealing two rows of razor sharp teeth shaped like fish hooks running down its entire length. It scooped Lucy up, heedless of the bullet holes appearing on its side as Kelly and Fred fired at it, but when the Spartan III dug her combat knife into its skin Fred heard a roar, like an elephant blowing its trunk, rumble from beyond the doorway. The teeth worked like a chainsaw as the tentacle slithered around Lucy's midsection, and a geyser of blood erupted into the air as she was cut in half. The two other tentacles caught the severed lifeless body, and the teeth now worked like a conveyer belt, moving the torso and legs deep into the void, and Fred distinctly heard the crunching of bones on the other side.

He also heard Linda firing from her hidden position, and another elephant roar was issued as two of the tentacles were hit with the high velocity rounds. They retreated back into the darkness, but the third went for Kelly, wrapping itself around her leg, and with a sharp yank it pulled her arm out of its socket and began to drag her to the mouth of the as yet unseen beast. Fred pulled his fist out of the concrete, sliding on his back towards her, riding the powerful force that was dragging them all into Todash like a magnet. Kelly slipped beyond the doorway before he could reach her, and Fred threw his battle rifle onto the magnets on his back, grabbing the invisible edge to the doorway just in time before he two was swept into the waters of the Prim. He looked up and saw Linda flying towards him, and with reflexes faster than any normal human he grabbed her, holding onto his fellow Spartan with just his finger tips. They flapped like a ship's battle flag in the middle of a hurricane as they hung over the precipice of immaterial existence. Linda continued to fire her sniper rifle, hitting targets that not even Fred could see, perceiving only a grey mass moving against a jet black canvas. Within seconds her magazine ran dry, and those disgustingly sweet bells filled his ears again, this time followed by a glowing orange light growing brighter with each passing moment somewhere in the deep. Linda looked up at him, and Fred could see his own helmet reflected in her visor.

"Fred," she whispered over a private com, the single utterance of his name holding more meaning than any other words she could speak, and with no other warning she let go, falling into the abyss below them.

Fred searched frantically for her, for any hint of any of the other Spartans. He craned his neck upwards, taking one last look into the window of his own reality. He still could not see where the dark man had gone, but instinctually knew that he had not been swept through the doorway as the others had. Not for the first time he wondered what John would have done if he were in a similar situation. A hard knot formed in his stomach. John would have pushed on, would have completed the mission no matter what the cost.

But Fred was not him.

The Spartan swung his legs several times, finally gaining enough momentum to press his feet onto the edge of the doorway. He let go with his hand, and with one hard push he plummeted headfirst into the hell that awaited him.


	10. Chapter 10: God of War Part Two

Chapter 10: God of War Part Two (The Todash Tahken)

There is no time in the Todash Tahken.

There is no where, there is no when, just the endless dark abyss, a remnant of what existence was like before the White laid the foundations of The Dark Tower. A realm where reason, logic, and most of all science have no meaning

Yet there are creatures swimming in this endless ocean, beings who never sleep, monsters who have only one instinct, to feed. If you have a strong mind and are not driven insane by the illogic of nonexistence then you will have the unique curtsey of being devoured by one of these creatures, but even they are not the most dangerous things that lie in wait in the blackness.

This is the realm of gods and demons, and this is where John has gone.

…

There were no landmarks, no sense of direction, and Fred could no longer even count on his own internal sense of time. He was not sure how long he had been walking in the nothingness. It could very well have been days, weeks, maybe even months, or perhaps just a few hours. For the most part he could see nothing in front of him, just a wall of darkness that was so solid he had to resist the urge to stretch out a hand and try to touch it. The air smelled like burnt onions and garlic, if it really was air. He still breathed, and it had been an enormous relief when the oxygen reserves in his suit had run dry to find that he did not have to suffer the fate of dieing from toxic fumes, but every time he went to pull oxygen into his lungs he did not feel the sensation of air rushing into his mouth or nose. It was like breathing inside of a vacuum, except without the painful side effect of suffocation. Occasionally he would see lights in the distance, multicolored swirls with indiscernible shapes, and with no other choice he would head towards them, but whenever he drew near they would always vanish, and so two would his briefly invigorated sense of hope.

His temples were pounding, drums banging against his head, urging him to lie down and except death whenever it decided to come to him. He ignored these voices, but his refusal to yield did not silence them. Instead his stubbornness seemed only to urge them on.

He would hear noises. Children's laughter, the running of bare feet on dry cement, and the scolding of the mother, all distant, but close enough for his body to begin pumping adrenaline into his system. He the screeching of what sounded like birds, the growl of some unknown jungle predator, and on a number of occasions even music. The soft humming of a violin playing Mozart's Concerto or the soothing sound of a piano playing Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. Other times the sounds made no sense at all, unfocused screeching that drove itself relentlessly into Fred's skull.

Fred took another step forward, willing himself to keep moving, when his foot stopped in mid air. Gravity reversed itself and Fred's body fell upwards. With a quick twist of movement he reoriented himself and his feet landed firmly on the ground, or at least what constituted as the ground. He looked down at where he had fallen from, or was it up, or perhaps sideways? Fred shook his head, the pounding in his head growing worse. Static filled his HUD and the Spartan took a quick knee. This phenomena he was familiar with, had experienced it countless times since coming to this place, and with his vision momentarily blinded all he could do was wait until the static cleared up. With a final his the static disappeared and Fred moved to stand up, but found that his knee was stuck to the floor. With a yank he pulled his knee free, suddenly noticing that the immediate area around him had been illuminated by a grayish glow.

He could only see twenty meters in front of him, but it was enough to recognize what he was looking at. It was a vast network of spider webs, their sticky cords looking as strong and as thick as steel cables, and their patterns resembling dreamcatchers. There were eight of them, at least the ones he could see, and when he looked upwards to see what the giant cobwebs were attached to he saw a roof of snow white mist not a meter above his head, floating like rain clouds, and it was from that mist that the glow seemed to be coming from.

Fred sensed movement and he leveled his battle rifle, scanning the area around him. His shields had long since refused to recharge, and he felt genuine fear and vulnerability. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck and the Spartan twirled around. A creature, a spider with skin like a scorpion with one single lidless eye on its head lunged at Fred, its fangs dripping poison. His reflexes moved his body faster than his mind could think, and the spider only managed a glancing blow to his abdomen, but it was enough, enough to cut straight through the armor as if the fang had been an energy sword and pierce the soft skin underneath.

Lightning thundered throughout his intestines as the poison sank in, and his vision filled with black and red dots. He blinked through the dizziness and brought the butt of the rifle down on the spider's head. It was as big as a dog, and Fred winced as he heard it let out a ear bleeding screech as he smashed its brains out.

More hairs on the back of his neck, more movement under the glow of the mist, and seven more spiders appeared, surrounding Fred in a tight circle. He moved the sight of the rifle to the first spider that caught his eye and gently compressed the trigger, only to be met with a heart wrenching click. Fred's mind stopped. He had manually checked the magazine several times, had known for a fact that the rifle was loaded. Now when he looked at the ammo counter his heart dropped further as he saw that it read zero. It was impossible, the bullets seeming to have just disappeared on their own. He let the rifle drop to the ground and unsheathed his combat knife, the spiders inching their way towards him, acting more like wolves than arachnids. At least with the knife he knew that it was there, could feel it in his hand. Fred spun around as the spider behind him leapt in the air, catching the monster in the middle of it hourglass frame with his knife. The spider's leg curled up underneath its body and with one quick thrust Fred through it off of his blade. His stomach was burning, his intestines on fire, and his legs were shaking as he struggled to stand up. The remaining spiders crouched down, preparing to make attacks of their own from all sides.

Pure unfiltered white light slammed into them, the spiders screeching as if in their final death throws as their eyes were pummeled by the brightness, limping away at the being that it emanated from. Fred brought a hand up to shield his eyes, his polarized visor useless against the brightness. From between two of his fingers he saw a figure emerge from the light, and Fred widened his stance in preparation for a new fight. What he saw emerge from it made him drop his guard. The scarred armor, the posture, the way he walked. Fred blinked his eyes, _It can't be. _He had seen him die, Laskey having allowed him to view the combat footage in direct violation of ONI's orders, had even seen the broken body along with Kelly and Linda. He was dead, as dead as any person could be, and Fred's first conclusion was that his mind had finally snapped.

John brought two fingers up to his visor and swiped them across, a Spartan smile. "Sir."

Fred sighed, both in relief and in frustration, the blatant hardheadedness and attention to protocol all the evidence he needed. "John, don't call me sir." The Master Chief did not reply as he moved towards Fred, coming to rest only a few feet away from him. "How are you here?"

"I died," John said. "Twice."

Fred tilted his head, "Twice?" John nodded in reply. A million more questions flooded Fred's skull, but he set them on the back burner, content instead for asking the most important one first, "What is this place?"

"The Todash Tahken," John said evenly, and from the subtle way Fred changed his stance he could imagine his fellow Spartan raising an eyebrow. "Hell."

"Hell…" Fred began but was cut off by the roar of what sounded like an elephant, the same roar that he heard coming from whatever the tentacles were attached too, and as both Spartans turned their heads the same orange grew in the darkness, and the ground shook as the behemoth began to approach them. "That's the thing that dragged all of us in here," Fred said, still facing the growing light. "Have you found the others?"

"Tom, Lucy, Naomi, and Linda are dead," John said, and only Fred would have been able to detect the emotion in his voice. "I'm still looking for Kelly."

_Kelly, _Fred thought, closing his eyes. It was terrible, and Fred felt guilt for feeling it, but his spirits were lifted knowing that Kelly might still be alive, despite the death of the others. The ground shook again, and Fred refocused his attention on the matter at hand, "I don't suppose you have any spare ammo."

John shook his head, "Shooting just makes it angry." He stretched out his right hand, and Fred saw that he was handing him a Covenant energy sword. Fred took it and with a flick of his wrist activated the blade, John doing the same with his own sword beside him.

"How do we kill this thing?" Fred asked, the shaking coming closer and more frequently.

"Remember when we first encountered Hunters?" John asked, and Fred shook his head. They waited out the next few seconds in silence, eyes searching the dark void. From somewhere above them a single leg came crashing through the empty firmament, illuminated by the orange glow coming from somewhere above it. Three more legs followed, each of them massive, and when Fred tried to look up he found that he could not see the body that they were attached to. The legs were wrapped with the same tentacles that he had encountered earlier, seeming to almost consist entirely of them, looking like exposed corded muscle, and the pulsating legs ended in a foot also wrapped in tendrils with three claws sticking out of them. From the two front legs dozens of tentacles unfurled themselves from the legs which grew thinner as a result, the seams underneath of them opening up to reveal the endless rows of razor sharp teeth, and they began to snake their way towards the Spartans.

"Sprint it?" John asked, and despite everything Fred felt his mouth twitch upwards into a half smirk.

"Sprint it."

With a burst of movement the two Spartans ran towards the oncoming tentacles in a crisscrossing pattern, their energy swords trailing in their hands behind them. The tentacles massed together and aimed a unified thrust as the Spartans. John veered right and Fred left, both narrowly missing the oncoming assault. Fred now ran in a straight line, aiming himself like a missile right at the left leg, and two his right the tentacles retracted themselves back up into the leg before reaching out again to begin a new offensive. One tendril, as thick as a tree trunk, hurtled sideways towards Fred, aiming for his legs. Like a pole vaulter Fred leapt over the tentacle, swinging the energy sword downward and leaving a blackened gash behind. When he landed his stomach contracted, the pain from the poisoned wound coming in fresh, slowing his movements down just enough to where he could not avoid the next tentacle that came after him. It hit him in the chest, the teeth scraping across the armor as it went diagonally down his body. The Spartan flew backwards and landed on his back. Using the momentum he did a backwards somersault, pushing onto the floor with his hands and jumping backwards onto his feet.

Without a pause he resumed his sprint, ducking as another grey appendage attempted to decapitate him, disassociated his mind from his body in order to ignore the fire that was burning him alive inside of him. A tentacle swooped downward and Fred jumped on top of it, quickly finding his balance and running upwards on it towards the leg. Glancing to his right he saw John doing the same thing. The two Spartans locked eyes and John hurled an object at Fred. He caught it with his left hand, and did not have to look at it to know that it was a plasma grenade. He placed it on his hip and drew his combat knife out once again as he neared the leg, jumping up into the air and sinking the blade deep into the creature. He plunged the energy sword into the behemoth, twisting the bade in order to make a hole, the elephant trumpet screaming louder as he did so. He deactivated the blade, grabbed the plasma grenade, and plunged it into the wound, activating it as he did so and covering his armor in orange mucus. Retracting his arm and leaving the primed grenade inside Fred kicked off of the beast, doing a back flip as he did so, and dropping a hundred meters to the deck.

The ground bounced when he landed, and then vibrated again as John landed behind him. The grenades detonated simultaneously, and the trumpet turned into a series of whimpers as the two front legs exploded in a shower of plasma and orange blood. They had not been severed, and Fred watched as the creature tentatively put weight on them, the outstretched tentacles wrapping themselves back around the legs and covering up the twin wounds.

"Like old times," Fred breathed as he stood up, watching as the creature limped away from its two attackers, making more whimpering calls into the distance. His legs wobbled as he stood, the adrenaline leaving him, the burning sensation now having risen to his chest.

"Sir show me your vitals," John said. Fred did not reply, his back still to the Master Chief. He opened and closed his right fist, "Fred…"

Fred nodded and sent the link to John, and the Master Chief winced at what he saw. His heart had elevated to dangerous levels, his neural patterns was a mess, his breathing shallow and irregular, his blood pressure skyrocketing, his toxicology showing poison coursing its way through his body, liquefying organs as it went, and to top it all off he had two bruised ribs. It was a miracle he was still standing.

Ignoring the piercing stare John was giving him from behind, Fred focused his attention on the retreating creature, its calls now being answered by others. "Its brought friends." Fred swallowed, his vision now almost completely filled with those red and black dots. "Alright, here's what we are going to…" His sentence was cut off as John wrapped an arm around his throat, sealing him in a headlock, and cutting off his access to air. Fred struggled, realizing too late that this must have been a trap, ramming his elbow repeatedly into the Master Chief's stomach, stiffening out his neck as best he could. It was too late, the poison having already done too much damage, and Fred slipped into unconsciousness.

The Master Chief set Fred down gently onto the floor, kneeling over him. He gritted his teeth and placed two of his hands over where the spider's fang had penetrated him. It was the pain that let him know it was working, the flames transferring themselves from Fred's body into his, and John's eyes watered as he healed him. It was agony, like all of his internal organs being turned to lava. The White may have elevated him to the status of a god, or at least a being that was godlike, but he still experienced pain, could still be crippled by it, and pain was the price he paid for healing someone. Nine elephant roars sounded behind him and the Master Chief took his hands off of Fred's unconscious body. It was enough, enough to make sure he could survive, but he still needed medical help.

The portal was not John's doing, although he had found that he could now make them, had even found a way to make it back to Cortana, to make it back to his family, but before he could even begin to enact his solution he had to first find Kelly. It was Gan that had opened the portal, and John had no idea where it would lead to, but he trusted the White enough to know that it was somewhere Fred could find help. John picked Fred up, and with a level of strength he had never experienced in his past two lives he heaved Fred into the portal, watching his friend disappear, knowing very well that it might be the last time he ever saw him.


	11. Chapter 11: English Fairy Tales

Chapter 11: English Fairy Tales

11:30 P.M., July 9th 1947 (Gregorian Calendar) Residency of Cortana Toren, Hell's Kitchen, New York, New York

It was the 190th day of the year, a day when all the stars had seemed to align for her and what she had come to consider her family. Cortana, who was currently balancing two jobs as well as going through the process of earning her GED (a tedious but necessary endeavor, and one she was determined to do honestly rather than through forgery) had the night off, as well as Rosalita, and with Jake being out of school it was one of the rare occasions when they were all able to be in the same room together.

The multicolored game board of Monopoly lay stretched out on the kitchen table of the two bedroom apartment, a large stack of fake money sitting proudly in front of Cortana, a stack half the size of hers in front of Rosalita, and a lonely five dollar bill clutched firmly in Jake's hand, a pair of dice in his other. His eyes darted across the board. His piece was currently standing open and exposed on the community chest square just be for free parking. If he could just roll a three and make it there he would be safe, and was secretly praying to whatever gods existed that in his next roll he could land on the Go To Jail space so that he could avoid the endless gauntlet of red hotels Cortana and Rosalita had thrown in his way.

He eyed Jack who had been designated as the banker (and in Jake's opinion doing a damn good job at it) sitting in his high chair gnawing on a fist full of Cheerios, then up at the clock which read just a little before nine p.m., and then at the two women at the table. Both their arms were crossed, waiting impatiently for him to roll. _No mercy then, _Jake thought. With a halfhearted and defeated move of the wrist he let the dice roll out onto the table, his shoulders sagging when he counted up the dots. He quickly moved his dog piece four spaces, landing on Kentucky Avenue, and Rosalita beamed at him.

"Lets see," she said, scanning her property card. "You owe me $1,050."

Jake looked at the waded up five in his hand and then back at Rosalita, "I don't have $1,050."

"Then mortgage off some of your properties," Rosalita said plainly. Indeed their was no mercy.

Jake stared glumly down at the board, "All I have is Baltic and Mediterranean."

"Well that's what you get when you start buying properties without paying attention to how much money you have," Cortana said, her arms crossed and a smirk on her face.

Jake sighed and looked back up at the clock. If he could only stall the inevitable for a few more minutes he could try to declare a tie. His sullen face changed to a look of confusion, the clock on the wall reading the same numbers as it had five minutes beforehand. "Rosalita what time is it?"

Rosalita raised an eyebrow and looked at the watch on her wrist, and expression of shock coming onto her face as she saw the time, "Holy Mary, its well past eleven."

"Eleven," Cortana said, turning backwards to look at the mounted wall clock as well. She had to get up at five a.m. to begin work, and she was doing a double shift tomorrow. "The clock must be broken," Cortana said, trying to sound more convincing than she actually was. Rosalita had her doubts, and had a pretty good idea of why the clock stopped working, but as always she bit her tongue.

Cortana stood up and picked Jack out of the highchair, a number of Cheerios escaping from their imprisonment in his lap and falling onto the floor as she did, "Jack do me a favor and go get ready for bed while we clean up."

"Okay mommy," Jack said. Cortana placed him down on the floor, his legs kicking into high gear once his feet made contact and he toddled off to his room.

…

"You know he stopped the clock," Jake said. It was right after Rosalita had left, the board game tucked safely away underneath the coffee table in the living room.

"I know," Cortana said. She was rubbing her hand over her forehead, "Lets just be thankful that there is not that much technology around for him to try and experiment with."

"Unless he becomes strong enough to shut off the entire New York power grid." Jake shook his head, leaning up against the wall, "And that's not the point anyway. He's not even two years old and he was able to come up with a plan to trick us so that he could stay up later, and it actually worked."

"You don't think I know that?" Cortana asked, a flash of irritation in her voice. "How am I suppose to handle this Jake? What am I suppose to tell him? He's too young for me to tell him the truth. I'm not even sure he comprehends that children his age are not suppose to be able to do the things he can do."

Jake sighed. He looked Cortana in the eye and prepared himself for the whirlwind that was sure to follow what he was about to say next, "We both know who he looks like."

Cortana pointed a finger at him, "Don't you dare say it Jake. We are not going to talk about this."

"We can't keep avoiding this," Jake replied heatedly, doing his best to keep his voice down so that Jack would not overhear their conversation. "He looks exactly like Mordred. They might as well have been twins. If we are going to make sure he doesn't end up like he did…" his voice trailed off.

Cortana's cheeks had flushed to a bright red. She slowed her breathing in an attempt to remain calm, her words coming out even slower, "We are not going to discuss this, ever. Jack is going to live a normal life, even if it kills me to make sure that happens, so don't worry about who he ends up like."

"I care about him too."

Most of the red left Cortana's face and her features softened, "I know. You just have to trust me." She looked backwards at Jake and Jack's shared bedroom, "Nobody ever turned out well adjusted by being told all their lives that they were exceptional. I am going to tell him the truth someday, but not until he is older."

"Promise?" Jake asked, his arms dropping to his side.

Cortana looked back at him, and then slowly nodded.

…

Jack sat in his bed, the covers laying bunched up near his feet, wearing his Flash Gordon Pajamas, and a book in his lap, the title of which read…

English Folk and Fairy Tales

Edited by Joseph Jacobs

His mother had just gotten it for him at the used book store, the worn down edges attesting to this fact, and he was as excited as an almost two year old could be to begin reading it. Cortana came in, saying nothing as she sat down on Jake's bed, which in the small bedroom stood only a few feet from Jack's, and the smile Jack had faded at the look on her face.

"Jack," she said slowly. "Did you stop the clock?" Jack said nothing, looking away from Cortana. "Johnathan!" it came out much louder than she had intended, and Jack nearly jump off of the bed.

His bottom lip was sticking out ever so slightly, those light blue eyes giving off a look of pure remorse, and he looked so pitiful that Cortana felt any anger she felt towards him instantly melt, "Sorry mommy."

Cortana sighed, "Its okay, but you know that you can't do that. I have to get up really early tomorrow, and now I'm going to be really tired because you made me stay up late."

Jack shook his head. Tentatively he held the book up in front of him, looking hopeful, "Story?"

"I should just make you go to bed without one," Cortana replied. Jack pouted, and again Cortana wilted under the gaze of those soft blue eyes. In the back of her mind she thought, _How am I suppose to ever say no to him when his eyes are so much like John's?_ She stuck out her hand, and Jack beamed as he handed the book to her. "Just one," she said, flipping to the table of contents and holding it for him to read. And he could read, could probably read the whole book if he were so inclined, but in the end he was still just a child and to him there was nothing better than to have his mother read him a bedtime story.

Jack pointed with a quick thrust at his chosen story. Cortana read the title, heart skipping a beat as she did. "How about this one," she recommended, pointing to her chosen alternative. "Jack in the Beanstalk. See Jack, just like you."

Jack shook his head enthusiastically, "No that one."

"Okay," Cortana relented. She flipped through the pages to the story and read the title, "Childe Roland."

…

A/N: Story time. If you really want to skip this you can, but I highly recommend that you do not.

_Childe Roland and his brothers twain_

_Were playing at the ball,_

_And there was their sister Burd Ellen_

_In the midst, among them all._

_Childe Roland kicked it with his foot_

_And caught it with his knee;_

_At last as he plunged among them all_

_O'er the church he made it Ike._

_Burd Ellen round about the aisle_

_To seek the ball is gone,_

_But long they waited, and longer still,_

_And she came not back again_

_They sought her east, they sought her west,_

_They sought her up and down,_

_And woe were the hearts of those brethren,_

_For she was not to be found._

_So at last her eldest brother went to the warlock Merlin and told him all the case, and asked him if he knew where Burd Ellen was. "The fair Burd Ellen," said the warlock Merlin, "must have been carried off by the fairies, because she went round the church wider shins, the opposite way to the sun. She is now at the Dark Tower of the King of Elfland; it would take the boldest knight in Christendom to bring her back."_

_"If it is possible to bring her back," said her brother. "I'll do it, or perish in the attempt."_

_"Possible it is," said Merlin. "But woe to the man or mother's son that attempts it, if he is not well taught beforehand what he is to do."_

_The eldest brother of Burd Ellen was not to be put off, by any fear of danger, from attempting to get her back, so he begged Merlin to tell him what he should do, and what he should not do, in going to seek his sister. And after he and been taught, and had repeated his lessons, he set out for Elfland._

_But long they waited, and longer still,_

_With doubt and muckle pain,_

_But woe were the hearts of his bretren,_

_For he came not back again._

_Then the second brother got tired and tired of waiting, and he went to Merlin and asked him the same as his brother. So he set out to find Burd Ellen._

_But long they waited, and longer still,_

_With muckle doubt and pain,_

_And woe were his mother's and brother's hearts,_

_For he came not back again._

_And when they had waited and waited a good long time, Childe Roland, the youngest of Burd Ellen's brothers, wished to go, and when to his mother, the good queen Guinevere, to ask her to let him go. But she would not at first, for he was the last and dearest of her children, and if he was lost, all would be lost. But he begged, and he begged, till at last the good queen let him go; and gave him his father's good brand, Excalibur, that never struck in vain, and as she girt it round his waist, she said the spell that would give it victory._

_So Childe Roland said good=bye to his mother and went to the cave of Merlin. "Once more, and but once more," he said to the warlock. "Tell how man or mother's son may rescue Burd Ellen and her brothers twain."_

_"Well, my son," said Merlin. "There are but two things, simple they may seem, but hard they are to do. On thing to do, and one thing not to do. And the thing to do is this: after you have entered the land of Fairy, whoever speaks to you, till you meet the Burd Ellen, you must out with your father's brand and off with their head. And what you've not to do is this: Bite no bit, and drink no drop, however hungry or thirst you be; drink a drop, or bite a bit while in Elfland you be and never will you see Middle Earth again"_

_So Childe Roland said the two things over and over again, till he knew them by heart, and he thanked the Warlock Merlin and went on his way. And he went along, and along, and along, and still further along, till he came to the horse-herd of the King of Elfland feeding his horses. These he knew by their fiery eyes, and knew that he was at last in the land of Fairy. "Canst thou tell me," said Childe Roland to the horse-herd, "where the King of Elfland's Dark Tower is?" "I cannot tell thee," said the horse-herd, "but go on a little further and thou wilt come to the cow-herd, and he, maybe, can tell thee."_

_Then, without a word more, Childe Roland drew the good brand that never struck in vain, and off went the horse-herd's head, and Childe Rowland went on further, till he came to the cow-herd, and asked him the same question. "I can't tell thee," said he, "but go on a little farther, and thou wilt come to the hen-wife, and she is sure to know." Then Childe Roland out with his good brand, that never struck in vain, and off went the cow-herd's head. And he went on a little further, till he came to an old woman in a grey cloak, and he asked her if she knew where the Dark Tower of the King of Elfland was. "Go on a, little further," said the hen-wife, "till you come to a round green hill, surrounded with terrace-rings, from the bottom to the top; go round it three times, widershins, and each time say:_

_Open, door! open, door!_

_And let me come in._

_and the third time the door will open, and you may go in." And Childe Roland was just going on, when he remembered what he had to do; so he out with the good brand, that never struck in vain, and off went the hen-wife's head._

_Then he went on, and on, and on, till he came to the round green hill with the terrace-rings from top to bottom, and he went round it three times, widershins, saying each time:_

_Open, door! open, door!_

_And let me come in._

_And the third time the door did open, and he went in, and it closed with a click, and Childe Roland was left in the dark._

_It was not exactly dark, but a kind of twilight or gloaming. There were neither windows nor candles, and he could not make out where the twilight came from, if not through the walls and roof. These were rough arches made of a transparent rock, incrusted with sheepsilver and rock spar, and other bright stones. But though it was rock, the air was quite warm, as it always is in Elfland. So he went through this passage till at last he came to two wide and high folding-doors which stood ajar. And when he opened them, there he saw a most wonderful and glorious sight. A large and spacious hall, so large that it seemed to be as long, and as broad, as the green hill itself. The roof was supported by fine pillars, so large and lofty, that the pillars of a cathedral were as nothing to them. They were all of gold and silver, with fretted work, and between them and around them, wreaths of flowers, composed of what do you think? Why, of diamonds and emeralds, and all manner of precious stones. And the very key- stones of the arches had for ornaments clusters of diamonds and rubies, and pearls, and other precious stones. And all these arches met in the middle of the roof, and just there, hung by a gold chain, an immense lamp made out of one big pearl hollowed out and quite transparent. And in the middle of this was a big, huge carbuncle, which kept spinning round and round, and this was what gave light by its rays to the whole hall, which seemed as if the setting sun was shining on it._

_The hall was furnished in a manner equally grand, and at one end of it was a glorious couch of velvet, silk and gold, and there sate Burd Ellen, combing her golden hair with a silver comb. And when she saw Childe Rowland she stood up and said:_

_"God pity ye, poor luckless fool,_

_What have ye here to do?_

_"Hear ye this, my youngest brother,_

_Why didn't ye bide at home?_

_Had you a hundred thousand lives_

_Ye couldn't spare any a one._

_"But sit ye down; but woe, O, woe,_

_That ever ye were born,_

_For come the King of Elfland in,_

_Your fortune is forlorn."_

_Then they sate down together, and Childe Roland told her all that he had done, and she told him how their two brothers had reached the Dark Tower, but had been enchanted by the King of Elfland, and lay there entombed as if dead. And then after they had talked a little longer Childe Rowland began to feel hungry from his long travels, and told his sister Burd Ellen how hungry he was and asked for some food, forgetting all about the Warlock Merlin's warning._

_Burd Ellen looked at Childe Roland sadly, and shook her head, but she was under a spell, and could not warn him. So she rose up, and went out, and soon brought back a golden basin full of bread and milk. Childe Roland was just going to raise it to his lips, when he looked at his sister and remembered why he had come all that way. So he dashed the bowl to the ground, and said: "Not a sup will I swallow, nor a bit will I bite, till Burd Ellen is set free."_

_Just at that moment they heard the noise of some one approaching, and a loud voice was heard saying:_

_"Fee, fi, fo, fum,_

_I smell the blood of a Christian man,_

_Be he dead, be he living, with my brand,_

_I'll dash his brains from his brain-pan."_

_And then the folding-doors of the hall were burst open, and the King of Elfland rushed in._

_"Strike then, Bogle, if thou darest," shouted out Childe Roland, and rushed to meet him with his good brand that never yet did fail. They fought, and they fought, and they fought, till Childe Roland beat the King of Elfland down on to his knees, and caused him to yield and beg for mercy. "I grant thee mercy," said Childe Roland, "release my sister from thy spells and raise my brothers to life, and let us all go free, and thou shalt be spared." "I agree," said the Elfin King, and rising up he went to a chest from which he took a phial filled with a blood-red liquor. With this he anointed the ears, eyelids, nostrils, lips, and finger-tips, of the two brothers, and they sprang at once into life, and declared that their souls had been away, but had now returned. The Elfin king then said some words to Burd Ellen, and she was disenchanted, and they all four passed out of the hall, through the long passage, and turned their back on the Dark Tower, never to return again. And they reached home, and the good queen, their mother, and Burd Ellen never went round a church widershins again._

…

Cortana closed the book, a soft smile creeping across her lips as she saw Jack completely passed out, his arms and legs sprawled in several uncomfortable looking directions, his back hair a tussled mess against the pillow. Gently she brought the covers up over his body and tucked them neatly around him. Then leaning over she placed a kiss on his forehead, and reached for the chain on the lamp sitting on the nightstand between the two beds, casting the room in warm darkness.

Jake stood just outside the door watching, moving agilely out of the way as Cortana walked out of the bedroom. They exchanged the normal pleasantries of a good night, but as Cortana headed down the hallway to her own room Jake said, "I told you so." She turned around, her forehead wrinkled in confusion. "Remember what I said to you in the hospital the day he was born?"

Cortana thought for a moment, and when the memory struck her she made a fake scowl, "Go to bed Jake."

Jake chuckled and headed into the bedroom.

…

The sleep was blissful, dreamless. In the middle of the deepest slumber we all momentarily forget who we are, a true escape of the restless mind from the constricting chains of reality. These chains were at once broken, utterly and completely, by a gentle shove on her shoulder, and soft whispered words.

"Mommy."

Cortana slowly opened her eyes, the night and her blurred sleepy vision hindering her sight, but still she was able to make out the form of Jack by her bed, his teddy bear held tightly against his chest.

"What's wrong sweetheart?" she asked lazily, stilly attempting to become fully awake.

"Bad dream," he replied, clutching his stuffed bear tighter.

Cortana propped her head up, her elbow digging deep into the mattress, "You are determined not to let me sleep tonight aren't you?" Jack merely gave her the same heart wrenching look he had given twice before that night. A look of pure innocence. Cortana scooted backwards onto the bed, lifting up the sheets so Jack could climb in. He cuddled up next to her, his head resting in her arm, and within seconds he was sleeping again.

Cortana looked down at him, running her fingers through his hair. She thought about how it might be if John had to deal with Jack having nightmare's and wanting to sleep with them, and the idea made her give a sad smile. She looked out the window which faced the southwestern portion of the New York sky. She wondered what John was doing, highly doubting that he was content with just sitting on his butt, hoping like she had been reduced to doing for a way back to them. _No_, she decided, _if anybody could find a way back it would be him. _She continued to look at the sky, waiting for the tides of sleep to wash over her again.


	12. Chapter 12: The Goddess

Chapter 12: The Goddess

Deep within the abyss of the Todash Tahken John stood, a giant clad in half a ton of armor, his orange visor staring at a crimson red glow coming from somewhere in the deep. He was motionless, thinking. He had tracked Kelly's whereabouts here, and now cursed himself for not being quicker, for she, whether by misfortune or design, was now in the clutches of one of the most dangerous creatures that roamed the never ending night. A monster that was ancient, that had existed even before existence itself had begun, and like all the other beasts that dwelt within this realm this creature had the ability to bend the fabric of reality as they saw fit. If John entered the red light he would have to play by her rules. Victory could not be sought against a being something like this, and the Master Chief prepared himself for something he knew he was ill suited for. Diplomacy.

Selena, the goddess of death and lust, and wife of Maerlyn.

There was one advantage that he had, a product of his augmentations that would allow him to resist her like few men could, and it was with that thought of self assurance that he headed towards the light, pausing only briefly before stepping into it.

…

Rolling sand dunes surrounded him, the desert wind buffeting against his skin even with the protection of the armor. He could feel the grit of the sand enter his suit, no doubt one of Selena's tricks, filling in ever crack and crevice and causing him discomfort with each step he took. He tossed his assault rifle aside, already filled up with too much sand to be useful, and knowing that the weapon would do him no good here. The sun blistered his skin, again paying no heed to the armor, and his mouth was suddenly very dry, even though he had no need to hydrate after what the White had done to him, every single pour of his body sweating profusely. He reached the summit of the first sand dune, and saw below it a small oasis. A single palm tree grew in defiance of the desert that surrounded it, a sickly pull of water giving off the stench of decaying death, and beside both of them stood a small tent, looking hardly large enough for even a normal man to be able to sleep in.

The Master Chief headed towards the tent opening a single hole ridden flap, having to crouch in order to enter. The discomfort, the blistering heat, and all of his thirst left immediately as he entered the tent. It was cavernous, and John realized that it was not a tent he had entered, but more like a palace. He looked behind him and saw a double door nearly ten feet wide and twenty feet tall, painted a dark crimson. Torches illuminated the palace, although now John guessed it looked much more like a harem. Nearly a dozen satin couches littered the large hall, mosaics with intricate flower like patterns decorating the walls, and a single fountain in the shape of a pentagram with phallus shaped protrusion in the center of it spouting mountains of white foaming liquid. Frill laced pillows were tossed casually around the floor, and even John was unable to ignore the smell of sex that hung in the air. He walked further, and saw that beyond the couches was a king sized bed, its sheets made of golden silk, and John could hear whispers in his ears of voices telling him to go lie down on it. He ignored them, focusing instead on what was beside the bed. There, displayed like a manikin on wooden racks, was Kelly's armor.

He stopped, seeing a flicker of movement from behind one of the red curtains that hung behind the bed, the shadow of an unmistakably female form appearing, and with it came a sultry voice.

"Hile John 117, god of war." A delicate hand reached out and pulled the curtain away, revealing the goddess behind it. Her eyes were bright red, he features delecate and almost elfish in appearance, her lips full, eyebrows thin and perfectly plucked, her body full of curves, her skin grey, her red hair flowing behind her like a candle flame in the wind, two bat like wings protruding from her back, and it was with an extreme level of dispassion that John noticed that she came to him wearing no clothes. Her body exuded all things sexual, could take on the form of whatever men desired most, and it was with a degree of subtlety that she began to change her proportions to more closely mach that of Cortana. Her wings turned to dust as she walked toward him, and although she frowned, even that facial expression had an air of seduction to it.

"But you don't think of yourself as a god do you? No you still think of yourself as a soldier." She put a hand up to her chin, appraising the armored man, "Soldiers have never been to my liking. I find them to dull for my tastes." Her smile returned, and her lips dripped with desire, "But you." She thrusted a hand outward and John felt a sudden wind surround him, his armor turning to dust much like her wings had, leaving only his skin tight black body suit. "With you I might make an exception." She turned back to Kelly's armor, as if remembering that it was there just then, "Do you like my new addition? I believe it brightens up the décor somewhat." She moved to the armor and draped her body across it, making sure to display herself for the Spartan as much as possible.

"Where is she?" He kept his voice calm, fighting the rising anger in him.

"Dead," Selena responded, not even bothering to look at him, casting off the comment as if it was a trivial little detail that was not even worth mentioning. "I promise you it was a mercy. Even the strongest minds can only take so much." She brought a hand up to the visor and began to trace circles with a single finger, "She was much like you, much more attractive once she had this off." Her body shivered, as if seized by a sudden chill, "You should have heard her scream. In pain," she moved her hand to the chest plate and began making circles there. "In pleasure, until they were both one and the same. She lasted much longer than any of the others, but still she broke, and by then I had grown bored with her." She pushed herself off of the armor and looked at John again, seeing fully the hatred that seethed from him, every subtle stance like an open book for her to read. "You love her." She bit her bottom lip, his cold stare affecting her in ways that perhaps he did not even realize, "Or at least you did. It's a terrible thing isn't it, to fall in and out of love?" She stepped towards him confidently, swaying her hips from side to side, "But we both know that you will not have the vengeance you seek. We are gods, you and me, immortal. We could battle for a thousand years and neither gain the advantage."

"Even if it took me a thousand years…" John began, but Selena cut him off.

"But you do not have that kind of time do you? Not if you want to get back to them." She came to rest not even a few inches from him, a waft of perfume settling under his nose, and she forced back a frown when she saw that it had not effect. "How long do you think it has been? How many years? Do you really think that Cortana has been faithful to you for all this time?"

"Yes," the conviction in his voice was unshakeable and again Selena internally frowned.

She tilted her head, leaning her body forward, John leaning his back in response. "Me and her are more alike than you think. We were both given something we thought we would never be able to have." She turned sideways, displaying the full extent of her curves, and a hand rested on the flat of her stomach. "I was born here, able to wield a power over mortals than none but beings like you and me could even begin to fathom, but the one thing I wanted most was out of reach. Then he came, Maerlyn, and he was able to give me what I craved." She rubbed her stomach and smiled, "My son. My Walter."

She clutched her stomach, fingernails digging into her skin until she began to bleed, her eyes turning from red to an unnatural opaque white, fangs appearing out of her mouth. "And then to have him taken from me! To feel as if the pain were my own as your woman cut him in half and set his remains on fire!" She began to breath heavily and worked to calm herself. Her red irises returned, and the self inflected wounds healed themselves almost instantly. She moved back to the Master Chief who stood seemingly unfazed. "Do you know how much I have thought," a hand disappeared between her thighs and a small gasp escaped her lips as her fingers curled upwards, "How long I have fantasized about what I would do to her?" With lightning speed her hand shot from the warmth of her thighs and buried itself into John's chest which rippled like water as she entered. He staggered backwards, wondering how he could have been so stupid to have missed her ploy. Selena gave him a sultry smile, "But now that you are here I have a better idea of how to get my own revenge."

Her fingers twitched, and John struggled to move his arms, finding them rooted in place. Selena began to rummage through his thoughts, the Spartan all but helpless to stop her as she tore through them like a corporate thief through a filing cabinet. "Lets see," she said ponderously, her fingers twitching inside of him. "Dr. Halsey took away your libido. An unintended side effect of the augmentations, but a useful one. All the mechanics still work, but the desire is gone. Why then? Why did you lay with her if you were incapable of such passion?" She grinned as she found the memory, locked deep within the most secure vaults of John's subconscious, something that only he and he alone was ever meant to see. "Now I understand. You wanted to make her happy." She looked up at him, her eyes shining, "How very sweet of you, and the love you two made was so tender, always so concerned about hurting her. Of course with me you would never have to worry about that. I could make you sleep with me now if I wanted to, but that would mean taking away your ability to choose. No, it would be much more satisfying if you betrayed Cortana of your own volition." She focused her attention again on where her hand had entered his chest, "Now about that libido."

Her fingers twitched again, and it was like an ancient vault had been opened inside of him. Sensations washed over him, too fast for him to even comprehend, his own repressed sexual desires, fantasies, lusts, and unbridled passions hit him like a sledge hammer far faster than he could even process. He suddenly became aware of just how close Selena was to him, of the way her body was positioned, the way her lips were continually inviting him. John locked his eyes forward, not trusting himself to even so much as glance at the goddess. Her hand left the confines of his chest, and she giggled triumphantly when he did not back away. Selena pressed herself up against John, fingers tracing his chest. "There are things I can do for you that the blue bitch has never even thought of. Please you in ways that she never could." John kept his eyes forward, but was unable to control how his body was reacting to her, his mental commands to move his legs falling on deaf ears. "Still resisting. How noble of you, but perhaps a deal similar to the one you made with Gan will entice you to my bed." She stood on her toes and pressed her lips up against his ear, whispering, "Spend just one night with me, and I promise I'll leave your family alone. That I will not seek the revenge that is rightfully mine. One moment of weakness, become my Spartan, and I vow no harm will ever come to them." She backed away a few inches, eyes going to his groin, "I'll take that as a yes."

**A/N: So new villain. Tell me what you think of her, and if you believe John will be able to resist now that his libido is in full swing.**


	13. Chapter 13: The Beast

Chapter 13: The Beast

_And here comes the question whether it is better to be loved rather than feared, or feared rather than loved. It might perhaps be answered that we should wish to be both; but since love and fear can hardly exist together, if we must choose between them, it is far safer to be feared than loved._

_Niccolo Machiavelli_

_The Prince_

…

Selena was not exactly cheating as John was still fully in possession of his free will, or at least what free will remains under the dominion of ka, but she was certainly helping his decision along. The perfume she carried, heavily laced with pheromones so powerful that they would have most men rejecting the love of all those they hold dear just for a chance to lay with her, was working its way into John's nose and corrupting his thinking. They were thoughts he was fully able to ignore before Selena gave him back his libido, but now he had not choice but to listen to them.

They were dark thoughts, ideas that disturbed him, voices that whispered how easy it would be to just allow the goddess to lead him to her bed, voices that begged him to just take her right then and there, and damn any consequences that might follow. These voices tugged at his eyes which were still fixed on the far wall, trying to force his gaze to her body, every inch of which was built for one purpose and one purpose only. His own willpower was strong enough not to give in to these primal passions, but there was another part of him that told John to just give in. His logic.

Selena had made an oath not to harm his family if he slept with her. Of all the deities that exist most were indifferent towards mankind, some malevolent, and a few sympathetic, but all of them shared one trait in common. They valued oaths. Selena was a liar, just as much as her son, but if she made a vow to him then she was bound to it. If he did not sleep with her then she would reek havoc on them, and there would only be so much he would be able to do to protect them. If he did have sex with her then they would be safe. It was the right choice, he decided. It was the only choice. Cortana would be hurt, would be devastated, but she would be safe.

Without warning Selena grabbed him, her hand reaching towards his groin, and she began to stroke him through his under suit. "Silence gives consent," she said, giving a smile of victory. Her experienced fingers worked expertly around him, bringing him just on the verge of climax without pushing him over the edge. "I didn't lie, you do only have to spend one night with me." At last John's eyes met hers and she felt a jolt of electricity run through her. It was extremely rare than any man made her feel this way. Usually it was the other way around. "But that's just the thing isn't it? You'll sleep with me and then go back to her, and you will find that there is no comparison." She increased the speed of her strokes, "You will come back to me, and then you will be mine forever. I will be a better lover to you than that bitch ever could be, and I will give you a son that you will love more than that brat that she spawned."

A vice grip tightened across her wrist as John seized it with his hand, his glacier blue eyes burning with hellish flames. Selena's heart began to flutter. She had seduced enough men and women, thousands of them, to know what this meant. When it came to a tough nut like John, hatred was usually the best tactic to take. To fill his head with so much lust and so much anger that all thought takes a back seat to primal instinct. She waited for John to take her, fully willing to let him use her in any way he pleased, at least this time, and to let him think that he was in charge. What he did, however, was not what she expected.

John yanked her hand away from him and uttered a single decisive word, "No."

The Master Chief felt himself being flung backwards, the two deities repelled from one another like two magnetic south poles. He regained his footing after sliding on the marble floor several feet. He strained his eyes, just able to make out the glass like barrier that had been erected between him and the goddess. Selena placed her hand up against the barrier, a soft humming entering her ears as she did, feeling its smooth clear surface. "Well this is new," she said. Their eyes locked again, and this time she did not look at him with lust or arrogance, but with pity and curiosity, "You can sell your soul to protect the ones you care about, but not your body. You have a very interesting set of morals."

"Stay away from my family," John said in a voice that he did not recognize. It came out sounding feral, like it belonged to a rabid dog rather than a man, and despite the barrier between them Selena could not help but shudder in arousal.

"I'm afraid it is too late for that," she replied, genuinely sounding remorseful. In a way she was, for Selena had been looking forward to this moment for a long time, and now because of this Spartan's stubbornness her hand was being forced. She tapped a single nail on the barrier, "Do not worry about Cortana or Jake. When Sombra and North Central find them they will be well taken care of. Your son on the other hand…" She moved in closer towards the barrier, her hot breath creating a thin mist on it, "What are you going to do John?" She pressed her forehead against the barrier, raising a single eyebrow, "What are you going to do when the greatest enemy you have ever faced turns out to be your own son? You have felt it haven't you? The darkness inside of him, the evil that is just waiting to break loose at the right opportunity. Why else would you have sent that dream to Jake?"

"I am not going to let that happen," John said, but the similarity between what he was saying now and what he had said to Cortana as she was slowly dieing of rampancy crushed any conviction he might have been able to muster.

"Unfortunately," Selena said, one last devilish smile being revealed. "You don't have a choice.

The goddess erupted in flames, and the air around him burst into fire. He could feel the heat against his skin, could feel the same pain as any normal person would. The only exception for him was that he was not consumed by it. John crouched down, covering his eyes with his arm in an attempt to protect his vision from the searing heat, and from out of the flames he saw the vision.

…

The ruined city in the background was not the focal point of the scene, for John had seen many like it in his life. No, the focus of this vision was a man clad in a grey robe, a long white beard hanging down below his chest, deep wrinkles marking his face with advanced age, grey eyes wandering over the congregation of several dozen that had come to hear him speak. All of the people waiting dutifully for him to begin his sermon wore clothes that were little more than rags, their hair hanging from their heads in oily strands, their faces covered in dirt. They stood in the middle of a wide open plain, fresh green prairie grass waving in the wind that blew with gentle constance, their heads bowed in obedience. The man stood atop an ancient gas station signed that was halfway buried in the dark brown earth, and he held the handle to a gas pump in one hand, and in the other a violet orb, much like a crystal ball.

_"Brothers and sisters," he began, spreading his arms wide. "I come in the name of EXXON, the one true god." He motioned with the gas pump at the sign he was standing on, "The Old People left his sigul scattered throughout mid-world to demonstrated that he and he alone is worthy of worship." He held up the orb in front of the congregation, and all eyes were drawn to it, "And the lord EXXON has spoken to me. Hear his voice and head his words." Then from out of the depths of the violet ball a voice came forth, sounding regal and authorities, lacking both pity and mercy._

(_You have been found guilty of your crimes. In accordance with the law set forth by John Roland Toren; Dinh of the Kingdom of All-World and the one true Emperor of All Existence, your punishment is thus.)_

(For the sin of murder; you shall be hanged by the neck until dead)

(For the sin of treason; you shall be nailed to the cross and crucified until dead)

(For the sin of witchcraft; you shall be burned at the stake until dead)

(For the sin of heresy; you shall be stoned with stones until dead)

(For the sin of adultery; you shall be whipped with the lash until dead)

(For the sin of incest; you shall be impaled on a stake until dead)

(Hile King John. Hile the Line of Eld)

_The old prophet withdrew the crystal ball from the congregation, looking at it with the same longing as one would look at a long lost lover, seeing his own aged face reflected on its surface, "Thus spake the lord EXXON." He returned his eyes to his faithful followers, "And now I know that twenty centuries of stony sleep have been vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, and that this child has been marked, by his red heel shall you know him. A Beast is coming, and behold he shall come riding a white horse, to conquer for the sake of conquest." The prophet thrusted his hands into the air, the gas pump in the orb held high over the crowd, challenging them to accept his faith as their own. "I tell you now, repent, for the Great Journey is nigh!"_

…

John found himself on his knees, and although the fire around him had been extinguished, replaced instead by the dark night that made up the vast majority of Todash space, his chest still burned. His hands clenched into fists, and above him a single bolt of lighting ran across the darkness, thunder nipping at its heels. _What have I done? _he thought. Everything that he had worked for, everything that the Ka-tet of the Nineteen had sacrificed for as well as the very soul of his son was now placed in jeopardy because of his own sense of honor. His own pride. This was not the first time John felt self loathing, but now he felt it more intensely than he ever had before.

John stood up, widening his stance and spreading his arms out. With a mental command his armor appeared around him, willed into existence by a single thought. The armor molded to his body, each piece placing itself in its rightful place and being layered like scales on a snake. As his armor assembled he took the time to think. There was one person that could help him, John having learned her identity as well as her relationship to him a while ago. He had not seen her because of his search for the remaining Spartans, although in the back of his subconscious he knew that was just a convenient excuse. Now, though, was not the time for indecision. He would go to her and as for help, and if necessarily would swallow his own pride and beg for assistance. As he had reminded himself earlier, most of the gods were indifferent towards the plight of mankind.

His helmet floated towards him and John grabbed it, placing it overtop of his head and creating a slow his. His assault rifle materialized a moment later and he took it, his old habit ingrained deeply within him from the early days of his training forcing him to check the magazine manually, even though he could if necessary will more ammunition into being. Slapping the magazine back home he headed out into the void once again to seek the audience of yet another goddess.


	14. Chapter 14: Journal Entry

Chapter 14: Journal Entry

Journal of Dr. Catherine Halsey

May 25th 2013

I did not come to the decision to begin writing a new journal lightly. Considering what happened to the last one I wrote, and how it was used in attempt to turn my Spartans against me, I had become determined to allow my own personal thoughts and feelings, along with any information I would not wish others to discover including the people I trust the most, to die with me. Recent events, however, have driven me to this act. When a person comes to the end of their life, or what might possibly be the end of their life, they tend to want to make sure that at least some piece of them will remain for others to find, or at least, that is what all the great poets tell us. It seems that they were right.

I do not wish to dwell upon the circumstances of my possible demise here, so with apologies to anyone who might be reading this, I will be blunt. I have been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor. The physicians have given me the optimistic prognosis of having a little over six months to live. Six months to reinvent the cure for cancer? Well, I have certainly faced worse odds, but still the possibility of my death remains.

I cannot read any of the Halo novels without receiving a mind crushing migraine, and in my current state I have been having enough of those already. There is, however, one loophole. So long as a book does not have my character in it, or mention me in any specific way, or contain any people that I personally know I can read it. The Dark Tower novels are of course the obvious example, my meeting with Roland seeming to have not crossed the arbitrary threshold of personally knowing him. Even then I still had decades to read them, and I did so voraciously. I am, as I have always been, addicted to new knowledge. As for the majority of the Halo novels, games, as well as the fan fiction works of the writer, I have to glean information about them secondhand. It is frustrating to say the least. There is one exception. The Forerunner Saga.

Halo Silentium by Greg Bear was released on March 19th. It took me perhaps a day and a half to read it, and I have spent the remaining time thinking about it. There has been one line in particular that has been circling the drain in my head for the past month, and I am sure that if you were to ask me right now what the rest of the book was about I would be incapable of telling you.

_As the reflective orb rotates beneath my ship, I see also the outstretched, feather-like plumes of vacuum energy pylons, drawing in the potential of an infinity of alternate realities…aborting untold numbers of nascent universes to supply Requiem's power._

They knew. The Forerunners knew that there are other worlds than these. Of course, how could a species as technologically advanced as themselves not have known? And to think I was there, had the very answer to every important question ever asked standing beneath my own two feet, and still it took me nearly getting crucified to even begin to come to the realization of the truth. To come to an understanding of the number nineteen. Still, I suppose I made out better than one of my countless counterparts. I will take dying of a brain tumor at a ripe old age to having my arm cut off by a careless Elite surgeon after a failed assassination attempt any day.

Yet, this one line has given me more cause for thought than anything else in recent days. It is the paradox that tortures me. That a society that was only slightly more technologically advanced than the one I currently reside in was able to not only unlock the secrets of how the multi-verse works, but was also able to master it in such a way as to create portals to parallel dimensions and create an empire the size of which has never been matched before or since. This empire was of course subversive in nature, the puppet masters, as I suppose any imperium of that nature must be. There have been attempts to recreate it of course, Arthur Eld who reunited mid-world under one banner and founded the Kingdom of All-World being the most notable example, as well as the efforts of the Crimson King, and most recently the Tet Corporation. Yet even the Forerunners, who had a level of scientific mastery that sometimes goes beyond my ability to even comprehend, were so close to discovering the full truth, so close to finding out about The Dark Tower, could not make that final decisive leap. Did they just assume that the alternate realities that they were destroying in order to draw power were arranged without any kind of order? That there was no lynchpin to hold them all together? Every part of me says no. They had all the tools at their disposal, but did not use them.

The Board of Directors is acting much more aggressively than they have in the past, and even Nancy is having trouble controlling them. Their appetite for expansion continues to drive the company forward. In dozens of universes we are setting up new branches. No one suspects a dental hygiene company of having plans for world domination, and that has worked in our favor in world after world after world. Take control of the money supply, send an army of lobbyists to influence the policies of whatever local governments may be in place, and you effectively control everything. In every reality that Tet touches, democracy dies. That is not to say that we still don't maintain the illusion of democracy, but it is just that - an illusion. We are successful because we remain hidden, and the only real threats we have to worry about are from Sombra and North Central, who have been decimated during the war for The Dark Tower anyway. They are still dangerous, and I doubt we will ever be able to completely destroy them, but then again, at this point neither will we. Endless war, as John Milton would say. There are times when I wonder what the true difference between us is. Yes, one side wishes to destroy everything, while the other wishes to preserve it, but in the end, we both tend to use the same dirty tactics to achieve our goals. I suppose when it comes to saving all of existence the ends do justify the means.

There I go again, talking like my old self. And to think that I had contented myself with the fact that I have used my chance at redemption wisely. Perhaps I missed my chance at redemption. My daughter (and here I am still thinking of her as my daughter) told me as much. I do very much want to see her one last time, to know that she doesn't hate me. I was relieved to find out that she delivered Jack safely, and not just because he will become crucial to our success or failure. He is the closest thing I will ever have to a grandson. I want to see him as well, just once. In many ways I was disappointed that the writer continued with a sequel, even if it may be necessary, and even if it was not exactly his choice. I know he tried to get out of it, even if it was a halfhearted attempt, posting the question to his readers even when he already knew the answer. He made a promise that Cortana and the others would be safe in the world that he sent them to, but he cannot both keep that promise and move forward with a sequel. His new story has already provided enough clues for a clever agent of the Red to find them.

But I am sure that Jack has inherited his father's luck, as much as a blessing and a curse as it might be. I am confident that he will eventually find his way to us. What I am not confident about is what will happen when he does.

I have been reading more Yeats recently. Mostly Moses Carver's favorite poem 'The Second Coming'. The center may be holding, just barely, but the gyre is widening and the cycle will continue. There was an incident during John's first day of training, Déjà having been so kind to catalog it for me. During one of her classes, after having finished his mid day snack, he stole from one of the other Spartan candidates and ate their food while they were not looking. Mendez's training eventually regimented this egotistical streak out of him, and funneled what remained of it into a willingness to do whatever was necessary to preserve the UNSC, but a part of me has always wondered what he would have been like if he had not been conscripted. He would have certainly been exceptional, but was this selfish act merely an anomaly, or was it evidence of an ingrained personality trait that we were able to marginalize? If the latter is true, then has Jack also inherited it? If he has, then Cortana will need to be a much better mother than I ever was. And Jake, he will be crucial. Still it might not be enough, and I cannot help but worry.

Nancy and the Board of Directors are fully prepared to cede all control of Tet over to Jack once he reveals himself. The necessary paperwork has already been prepared. John was one of the founding members of Tet, and so the company is Jack's birthright. When he does take over, all power will be vested in him and him alone. In many ways this makes sense. We have spent decades building a cross dimensional empire. Surely that means that we need an emperor. What worries me though is that once Jack takes control... he could become a tyrant and there would be very little we could do to stop him. It all rests on Cortana. Everything depends on her. If the Red is allowed to corrupt him…

Ka will decide. Ka always decides.

…

Cortana woke up with a jolt, a small foot with a blood red birth mark on its heel having been shoved against her cheek. She removed the offending foot and squinted through the darkness. Jack, as usual, was sprawled across the bed, taking up two thirds of it, Cortana being left with sleeping uncomfortably on a small sliver of mattress. He also just so happened to be sleeping upside down, his head buried underneath the covers. _Why can't he ever sleep like a normal person?_ she thought, looking at the clock on the nightstand beside her bed, noting that she had to get up in less than half an hour. Her mind was groggy, having barely gotten a few hours of sleep, dreading the near-sixteen-hour shift she would have to pull today at two different jobs just to make ends meet. After a few moments of indecision she scooted herself off of the bed and picked Jack up, the toddler weighing twice as heavy as he normally did while in deep sleep. She carried him down the hallway and into his room, depositing him back into his own bed and tucking him for the second time. Cortana took a moment to look at Jake. He had grown up so much since she had first met at the age of twelve. He was fifteen now, and would easily reach six feet if he kept on going. He still had trouble making friends at school, but it was not through a lack of socializing, and Cortana could understand his difficulty. There were no teenagers his age that had seen and done the things he had. On impulse she lightly kissed the top of his head, Jake groaning in his sleep in response. Smiling, she walked out of the room to begin her morning routine.

Two pieces of toast layered with peanut butter served as her breakfast, a hot cup of black coffee washing it down. She held the mug between her two hands, sipping at it slowly as she read the newspaper sitting on the table in front of her. The New York Times reported the usual affairs on the front page; mounting tensions between the Soviet Union and the United States over the future of Germany as well as the growing threat of the Chinese Communists, and if she searched the paper long enough she would be able to find a small article on country hardly anybody in the States had ever heard of called Korea. If pressed, Cortana would have been able to give you a detailed summary of all the major events of the twentieth century up until the year 1990. After that, her memory when blank until the year 2511, and even then, her memory was proving to be increasingly faulty, her mind discarding what it considered useless data at an alarming and uncontrollable rate. Still, she was not a woman who went unprepared, and even in the event that she should forget everything, Cortana still had a backup plan. Besides, it was still interesting to read history from the perspective of those who were living through it without the benefit of hindsight. She stopped reading, however, when she reached a small article nearly at the back of the newspaper. It detailed a supposed crash of what the reported dubbed a flying saucer in Roswell New Mexico. For reasons she could not explain, Cortana was drawn to the article, reading it as if everything depended on her ability to decipher some hidden meaning contained underneath the print.

A scream kept her from finishing - Jack's scream.

With all thoughts of the events at Roswell forgotten Cortana leapt from the table, the mug of coffee spilling over as she did. The black liquid soaked through the newspaper, blending words together in an indecipherable jumble. The mug rolled in a wide arc, pausing briefly upon the precipice of the table, before plunging to its death on the floor below where it shattered.

Cortana flew into the bedroom, the light already on and Jake kneeling over Jack. Her son was writing on the bed, his small hands tugging at the sheets with clenched fists, his legs kicking, his eyes shut and tears streaming out of them as his face contorted in pain.

Jake looked at her helplessly, "He just started screaming like this. I don't know what's going on."

Cortana rushed to Jack's side, Jake nimbly moving out of her way as she did, "Jack, tell me what's wrong. Tell me what hurts."

Jack opened his mouth as if he was about to reply, but the pain was to intense for him to even speak, his young mind unable to handle it. Cortana cradled him in her arms, whispering to him, trying desperately to get him to calm down. It was then, with her ear pressed up against his body, that she heard it.


	15. Chapter 15: Growing Pains

Chapter 15: Growing Pains

Journal of Dr. Catherine Halsey

June 12th, 2013

It appears that I am now writing for an audience. I still find it immensely disturbing that someone can invade my own thoughts so completely without my knowledge, but I should have seen this as a major possibility. Nancy briefed me on the latest chapter, and needless to say the Board of Directors were not pleased. My medical condition has for the most part been limited to a need to know basis, and the forces of the Red will surely use my blatant advertisement of it to their advantage.

I guess I should stop the charade and address you readers directly, if the writer is indeed going to publish my journal entries from now on. I do plan on continuing, although considerably more effort will go into censoring myself in order to prevent critical data from falling into enemy hands. The Board has requested, to use a euphemism, that they review all my entries from now on. I have refused, mostly on the basis of uselessness. I doubt that the Board editing my entries will have any influence on what the writer ends up publishing. They have also begun a series of rigorous, albeit needless, reinvestigations into the users who have read the chapter, particular those of you who go by the usernames morded, hero in a cup, dues, Jigglypuff, scaryrobots, xxvoxx, sarah (I hope I can see them once as well), Spartan Ninja (do not think the fact that you have reviewed almost every chapter from the beginning has not gone unnoticed. I in particular have taken an interest in you), and thelexy (thank you for your vote of sympathy, but I do not plan on dieing that easily).

On another separate note it appears that the writer has acquired a new beta, strangely enough going by the username Alpha Beta. Having already edited the last chapter, all reports indicate that grammar and spelling have improved significantly, which given the writer's frequent mistakes I am sure he is grateful for the assistance.

…

Artifacts Entry

Excalibur

Other Names: Sandalwood Guns, Blue Steeled Revolvers, Great Revolvers, The Guns of Arthur Eld, Long Guns, Widow Makers, Hard Calibers

Known Possessors: Arthur Eld, Alaric Deschain, Steven Deschain, Roland Deschain, Eddie Dean, John Chambers, John 117, Cortana Toren

Description: Forged from a blue grey steel not found in mid-world, Excalibur comes from mostly unknown origins, although many legends abound. Based on my own data analysis, it appears that the guns were indeed forged from the very sword that Arthur Eld first wielded when he came to mid-world, although the exact origins of the sword itself, as well as King Arthur, remain elusive despite my best efforts. It is believed by many, although far from being proven as I have been unable to properly analyze them, that the sandalwood revolvers are capable of killing immortal beings, making them veritable "God Killers". The guns are capable of firing the equivalent of a Long Colt .45 caliber round, and the sound of their report on the battlefield is sometimes mistaken for cannon fire.

The current whereabouts of the revolvers is still unknown.

…

2012 Hours, July 9th 1947 (Gregorian Calendar) Area 51, Nellis Range Complex, Nevada

(Jack. You must find Jack)

Fred shook his head, a full shiver running up his spine as if his entire nervous system had received a jolt of electricity. There had been a voice. The words were spoken in a soft whisper but he still heard them as if the person had been only a few inches from his ear. Instinctively he turned around, seeing only the open hanger that he and Smith had just exited from.

Smith, for his part, looked quizzically at the Spartan, "Are you alright? You look pale." As Fred turned around the agent added, "Well paler than usual."

"I'm fine," Fred replied, but the truth was he was not fine. There was something about the voice that seemed to command absolute authority. No compromise seemed to exist in its tone, as if whoever it belonged to expected to be obeyed, for better or for worse. He tried to discard the event as nothing more than his tired mind playing tricks on him, but found that he could not. Fred did not know it yet, and it is perhaps better that he did not, but the voice of the White had prompted what would become an obsession to find out who Jack was.

In front of the two men stood Groom Lake, a vast dry expanse of hardpan desert, almost completely flat. A place that humans were never meant to inhabit. The area was completely devoid of any buildings or structures, save for one. Almost perfectly in the center of the lake bed stood a massive object, rectangular in shape, clearly built as a weapon of war, its design a study in practicality over beauty. In the fading summer light Fred could just make out the numerous vehicles and human figures swarming around the UNSC ship like a swarm of ants, headlights occasionally illuminating the sides. Yet, despite his superb eyesight he could not make the words on the side. "What is its name?"

"The Spirit of Fire," Smith said simply. Anticipating, or rather feeling Fred's next question, he responded to it before the Spartan could speak. "If there were survivors, they were long gone before we discovered it. It took us months to breach the hold, and when we did we found it completely devoid of any crew. There weren't any bodies and much of the equipment was already gone. Somebody got to it before we did, but don't ask me who."

Fred was fine with allowing one question to go unanswered. He had a million other ones to preoccupy his time. But before he could address even one of them, a siren sounded behind him, piercing through the twilight, blaring so loudly that even basic thought was drowned by it. The vehicles that had surrounded the downed man of war were now racing away from it, dust clouds following the path of their rubber tires, and behind them the Spirit of Fire was being engulfed by a bright orange light. It was the same orange light that the behemoth he had encountered while in Todash had emitted, and Fred felt his muscles naturally tense. The ship itself began to flicker in and out of existence, each pop back into reality followed by a raging clash of thunder. The orange light now swirled around it like a vortex, and with one final cacophony of thunderous booms, it vanished from sight.

Fred blinked several times, the rest of his body standing motionless. "Where…" he began, but found that the question refused to form. He squinted, the full onset of night now completely obscuring his sight. "How?" It was still not the question he wanted to ask, finding that he had no words to form an appropriate question.

"Don't worry Fred," Smith said, giving him a sly smile. "It will be back in approximately twelve hours. It has been disappearing and reappearing like this since August 15th 1945." Again Fred felt his muscles tense. He had not told the agent his name, but somehow Smith still knew it. He began to analyze the man the same way he had analyzed him when he first walked into the interrogation room. Trying to figure out the best way to kill him.

"Silently," Smith finished the thought for him. "How to best make your escape, and how long you think your body can last without food or water out in the desert. Three days, huh? Pretty impressive. And before you ask the next question - yes I can read your mind." Heedless of the death stare Fred was giving him Smith walked past the Spartan towards the lake bed, "We are having to contract out a lot of the work to a company called North Central Positronics, but so far we believe that the ship is being transported to a different reality. We are still trying to prove it mathematically down in Black Mesa, but I think it is an accurate hypothesis." He did a mock about face, half-expecting Fred to reach out and break his neck in one swift movement. The attack never came and Smith allowed himself to take another breath, "And that is where I believe you come from. Not just from the future but a separate reality all together. I like you Fred, and I want to make a deal.. You help us and I promise we will do everything in our power to get you back home."

He stuck out his right hand. Fred considered it for a moment, weighing his options. Seeing no alternative he reached out and grasped the offered hand, shaking it slowly but firmly. Smith gave him another award winning smile, but resisted the urge to slap the Spartan on the shoulder. He had come this far without having the man killing him, and the agent was not about to test his luck. "We are going to need to get going. North Central is going to want to debrief you."

…

6:12 A.M., July 10th 1947 (Gregorian Calendar) Residency of Cortana Toren, Hell's Kitchen, New York, New York

Rosalita Mendez placed her ear firmly on Jack's chest, hearing at first the child's racing heartbeat, until underneath the steady drum she heard another noise. It was like the creaking of an old oak as it swayed in the wind of a destructive storm, or perhaps the creaking of floor boards in a long abandoned house. _Stretching, _Rosalita thought, deciding that was the best word to describe it. _I'm hearing stretching. _Jack was in a semiconscious state, bright red tear tracks along both of his cheeks, and his body would occasionally spasm as another wave of pain hit him. Turning her head upwards to look at Cortana she found that the boy's mother looked no better. Dark bags were underneath both of her eyes, panic and sheer helplessness making her look far older than her usually youthful appearance.

Rosalita shook her head, "I have never seen anything like this before. Jack needs to see a doctor. You should have called one already instead of coming to get me."

"No doctors," Cortana said fervently, although it seemed as if the very words seemed to pain her. She swallowed, trying as hard as she could not to give into the lump that was forming in her throat.

"Cortana," Rosalita said gently but firmly. "I'm just a nurse. A maternity nurse at that. He needs to go to a hospital."

"He can't go to a hospital," Cortana replied, nearly sounding hysterical at this point. "Jack just needs to ride this out. That's why we need your help. He needs painkillers stronger than what we can buy on the market."

"You want me to steal," Rosalita said, standing up to her full height which was a few inches shorter than Cortana. "I know you're not a stupid woman. Not an irrational one either. You knew what was wrong with him before you even woke me up."

Cortana let her arms fall to her side which had been firmly crossed along her chest in an effort at self comfort, "I don't know, not for certain, but I have an idea." A long worried breath broke up the admission, "I think it is a growth spurt."

"A growth spurt?" she asked, looking back down at Jack's pain racked form on the bed.

Cortana nodded, "He has already grown nearly a half inch."

Rosalita did a double take at Cortana, then at Jack again. The boy did seem to be bigger than the last time she had seen him. "Okay," she said slowly. "I have never once asked you what the truth was, even when I knew for a fact you were lying to me, but if you want me to do this for you than I need to hear it. Now."

Cortana bit her lip. Telling Rosalita the full story now would take up too much time, and she was not sure the woman would believe her even if she did. As much as it pained her, she settled on a much abbreviated half truth. "I told you my husband died in the war." Rosalita nodded, silently urging Cortana to continue. "He was part of a government project. Special Forces. The idea was to create a type of super soldier." She paused, letting the words sink in, finding herself unable to judge by Rosalita's expression whether she was believing her or not. "He…underwent a series of augmentations that were meant to make him faster and stronger than normal humans. My mother headed up the scientific portion of the project and I became involved well after the augmentations took place. That was how we met."

"And these…" Rosalita began, as if unsure whether or not she should commit to the question. "Augmentations. You believe they were passed on to your son?" Cortana nodded her head weakly. An emotion presented itself on Rosalita's face that Cortana did not expect. Anger. "And you didn't think about this before you had him? You didn't think about any of the consequences?"

"I did," Cortana asserted. "Trust me I did. I checked, and I doubled checked. I did all the research you could possibly imagine and some that you can't in order to make sure none of what was done to John would be passed on to him. None of his augmentations were genetic. Jack was never suppose to go through this." She stopped to catch her breath, having spoken in a speedy rush.

Rosalita had gone to rubbing her right temple, her other arm across her chest and tucked underneath her opposite elbow, "I shouldn't believe this. I should just call an ambulance and deal with the fallout later."

"That is why he can't go to a hospital. If anyone were to find out, and I mean anyone…"

Rosalita held up her hand, "I said I shouldn't believe you, not that I didn't." She lowered her hand, her voice returning to its usual tenderness. "I'll help you, but only on the condition that I'm the one that administers the medication."

"Of course," Cortana said hurryingly.

Rosalita looked Cortana over slowly, "You look terrible you know that?"

Cortana actually managed a small laugh. It was weak and fragile, but it still managed to escape.

**A/N I have a cookie for whoever caught the Half Life reference. **


	16. Chapter 16: Roland of Gilead

Chapter 16: Roland of Gilead

Journal of Dr. Catherine Halsey

Ka-Tet of the Nineteen Entry

Roland Deschain

Other Names and Aliases: The Gunslinger, Roland of Gilead, Roland of the Eld, Will Dearborn, The Really Bad Man, Old Long Tall and Ugly Number One (Eddie Dean's Nickname)

Occupation: Gunslinger

Faction: The Affiliation

Alignment: The White

Age: Unknown. Factoring his curse to travel to The Dark Tower for a thousand years only to be sent back again, conservative estimates place him at over one million years old

Height: 6'2"

Weight: 209 lbs

Hair and Eye Color: Brown/Blue

Weapons: Excalibur

Relatives: Descendant of Arthur Eld, Alaric Deschain (Grandfather), Steven Deschain (Father), Gabrielle Deschain (Mother), John Chambers (Adoptive Son), John 117 (Distant Cousin), The Crimson King (Distant Cousin), John Roland Toren (Nephew), Mordred Deschain (Son)

Known Twims: John Chambers, John Cullum, John 117

Status: Deceased

Description: For me to even attempt to write a summary about Roland's life would do it injustice, but I will attempt it all the same. Born into a long line of gunslingers, at the age of six Roland was inducted into the military program, spending most of his childhood and early teenage years training to fight the insurrection mounting in the outer Baronies. At the age of fourteen he took his test of manhood, challenging his instructor, Cort, in single combat which resulted in the man being put into a coma for seven days and Roland winning his guns.

During the war, and while on a mission to the outer Barony of Mejis he met and fell love with Susan Delgado, beginning an affair with her and eventually conceiving a child. Their affair was eventually discovered, however, and Susan was burned at the stake as a traitor, Roland choosing his duty to the Affiliation over saving her.

Roland was present during the Fall of Gilead, witnessing both the death of his father and the majority of the other gunslingers. He managed to escape the city with a handful of other gunslingers, witnessing first hand as the armies of the Covenant Man burned the city to the ground. Having recovered both Excalibur and the Horn of Gilead before the destruction of the city, Roland took command of what was left of the armies of the Affiliation and the war continued for nine more years until the last gunslingers became trapped on the summit of Jericho Hill.

I could give a detailed description of what followed after, but such an exercise would be pointless. His story has been told across countless worlds by an even greater number of writers. If you were to see him now you would say that you have seen him before, and you probably have. Out of all the sentient beings in all of existence he has in all probability come the closest to unveiling the multiverse's true nature. Yet this insight is tempered by his complete lack of imagination, which is both his greatest asset and his greatest weakness. He sees things as they are and does not bother to question them, and it has been said that he succeeds simply because he cannot imagine failure. However, his one true goal has always been to reach The Dark Tower, and throughout his life he as shown a frightening willingness to sacrifice even those he cares about most in order to reach it, that is of course until Cortana.

While he certainly may have felt an attraction to her because of her similarities to Susan Delgado, he insisted to me during our brief meeting that he loved her based on her own merits. Cortana may not be aware of this, but it was because of her that he was able to break the cycle that ka had trapped him in.

It is currently believed that he died during his battle with The Crimson King inside of The Dark Tower, although this has not yet been confirmed.

Abilities: His reflexes are superb, faster than any of my Spartans with the possible exception of Kelly, his movements so quick that the human eye is incapable of perceiving them. In his prime, with two revolvers, and using a technique that allowed him to fire and reload at the same time, Roland was capable of maintaining a sustained rate of fire roughly equivalent to that of a UNSC assault rifle. His accuracy is comparable to that of Linda, being able to hit targets from impossible distances even when firing from the hip. His eyesight and hearing is also comparable to that of a Spartan, and he is skilled in hand to hand combat and survivalist techniques. However, his raw speed and strength is limited to that of a normal human. He is also capable of hypnotizing almost anyone by running a bullet through his fingers, a trick he used to stave off Cortana's rampancy and prevent the miscarriage of Jack.

...

The white light surrounded him, engulfed him until the gunslinger felt as if his entire body was composed of it. He let his eyes look into it as long as he could, his feet carrying him forward towards the single blade of purple grass as he stepped further into the confines of The Dark Tower. At last it became too intense and Roland shielded his eyes from it, but his feet still did not stop as they continued to drag him further onwards. The toe of his boot struck something solid, and while completely blinded Roland felt it out with his foot. It was a set of stairs. Closing his eyes, but still feeling the intensity of the light through his lids, Roland felt outward with his hands, and his left palm collided with what appeared to be a smooth wall. Using his left hand to guide him and his right hand stretched out in front of him acting like a makeshift pair of eyes Roland began to climb the stair case, counting as he went. When he reached nineteen he stopped, feeling again with his foot out in front of him and like he suspected there were no more stairs. Again he began walking again, trusting nothing but his own instincts to guide him, when suddenly the light changed. With his eyes closed it was more of a feeling than anything else, a feeling of loss, the same feeling he had experienced as a child when his mother would leave him alone in his room at night to face the darkness by himself. Yet there was still light, he could feel that too, and slowly the gunslinger opened his eyes.

His first focus was on the source of the light, a pale yellow, the lamp it came from struggling with all its might to light up the modest size bedroom. What caught his attention immediately after, what made him nearly forget that he had journeyed inside the Tower at all, was the woman sitting on one of the beds, dark bags underneath her eyes, and a child sleeping in the bed opposite.

"Cortana." His voice was hoarse, as if he had not spoken in a hundred years, but the dryness did little to hide the relief in it. Cortana did not turn around though, did nothing to acknowledge his presence, her hand, both strong and delicate, wrapped tightly around Jack's tiny one.

"Cortana," he repeated, louder this time, taking several steps towards her. Still she did not notice him, and Roland's heart grew heavy once more. He scanned the room, looking for anything to break the spell, noticing a needle and bottle next to it with the non-word morphine written across it, a fotergraph beside it showing Cortana, Jack, and a much older Jake seemingly posed for a portrait. There was a single dresser, shoved tightly in a corner to the right of the door, a window which showed a pamerama of a brick wall of the apartment across from theirs. Seeing nothing that would aid him Roland accepted his fate, closing the remaining distance between him and Cortana. When he reached her he saw that much of her dark hair was hanging in front of her face. Reaching out a hand Roland gently moved to brush it aside, a last spark of hope left in him saying that maybe if he touched her the spell would break, but his fingers passed right through her as if they were nothing more than a hologram, and reluctantly Roland withdrew them.

"Greetings cousin," the voice behind him sounded even more hoarse than his, echoing the dust of a thousand millenia, its tone laced with ancient cobwebs strung about the attic of time and space. Roland spun around, his good left hand going for his holster, fingertips brushing up against the revolver held inside. The Crimson King stood in the doorway, clad in a sweeping red robe which drug on the floor, wrinkled hands with skin clinging to the bones extending out of its sleeves, the hood hiding his face with the exception of two crimson eyes as brilliant as rubies. A single bony finger pointed to Jack on the bed, "I said that I would show you the man that you really are. This is the one good thing you ever did. Everything after this is nothing more than sin and betrayal." He let the finger drop and began to stride forward.  
Roland drew the revolver, the weapon crashing through the air, and with a quick movement of his thumb he cocked the hammer back, "No further bondsman."  
The Crimson King stopped midstep, his red eyes filled with mirth, "Cannot a son look upon the face of his own father?"  
Roland felt the revolver begin to falter but he reaffirmed his grip, "Your father is long dead, as is mine."  
The Crimson King shook his head, "No, he is quite alive, and because of you the blue woman was able to give birth to him." With slow steadiness he reached out and grasped the muzzle of the revolver, pushing it downward, and much to Roland's shame he did not fire at the demon. "Look upon the face of your many times great grandfather," and Roland did look, taking in Jack's appearance. He seemed quite larger than a boy his age should be, his clothes uncomfortably tight, thin lines of muscle already making themselves known. The Crimson King brought his unseen mouth to Roland's ear, "Look upon the face of Arthur Eld." He withdrew, and Roland found that his heart was beating faster. He looked behind him to see where the Red king had gone, only to find nothing but his voice to greet him, "Come. There is much more you need to see."

...

Cortana turned her head. She almost could have sworn that she had heard something. Two voices whispering so low that she could not make out what they were saying. Finding no one she dismissed the incident, concluding that it must have been one of the neighbors. Still, for some reason her mind drifted to Roland. This was not the first time she had thought about the gunslinger, but now she found herself wishing that he was there with her, almost as much as she wished that John was there. Or perhaps just as much.

She shook the thought away. She had loved Roland, Cortana could admit that much to herself, but it had only been on a platonic level. She did not love Roland as much as she loved John, or at least that is what she kept on telling herself. Still, Cortana did miss him. She missed him terribly. Her thumb traced small circles on the back of Jack's hand as she held it.

Footsteps came down the hall, and for a second time Cortana turned her head, this time rewarded with Jake walking through the door. "How are you doing?"

Cortana gave a small snort, "How am I doing? I've had to watch my son grow nearly four inches in the last twenty-four hours, and be in near constant pain the entire time, all the while knowing that I'm the reason its happening to him."

Jake shook his head, "It's not your fault. There is no way you could have known this was going to happen."

"It was my job to know," Cortana said bitterly. "I was the one that wanted him. John had his doubts but I'm the one that pushed for it." A hand was placed on her shoulder, Jake having walked up to her while she had been talking. "He is going have to deal with this his entire life. Every time he grows, it is going to be like this. I'm going to have to keep him away from other children, never let him play sports, always worried that somebody is going to find out who he is all because I was too stupid to think of the consequences."

"You didn't know," Jake repeated softly. Without thinking, he pulled her into a hug, Cortana offering no resistance.

"Since when are you the one that is suppose to comfort me?" she asked leaning up against him.

"You've done it for me enough times," Jake replied. "Thought it was about time I returned the favor."

Cortana gave a small laugh, "And here I was thinking I was a mother figure to you."

"You're more than just a mom to me," Jake said. Realizing what he just said Jake let Cortana go, and before she could give any sort of reply he hastily added, "You should get some sleep. I'll take a turn looking after Jack."

Cortana thought about addressing what Jake said, but decided that for now it was best to let it go. Jake watched her silently leave, her tired steps betraying her exhaustion. When she was gone he knelt down beside Jack. He wasn't sure how long he stayed there watching, but he sighed in relief when Jack slowly opened his eyes, looking straight at him.  
"Where's mommy?" he said in a small voice, and Jake had to strain his ears in order to hear him.

"Sleeping. Do you want me to go get her?"

Jack shook his head. He began to cough and attempted to bring a fist up to his mouth, finding his arm too sore complete the task. "I'm thirsty."  
"I'll get you something to drink. You going to be okay by yourself?"

Jack nodded. Jake left, leaving Jack alone. Again he tried to raise his arm. It raised a few inches off the mattress, but flopped uselessly back on the bed when the pain became to great. He stared up at the ceiling, thinking about what his mother said to Rosalita. They had thought that he could not hear him because of the pain he was in, but he had heard every word and understood far more than they could have suspected. What he was experiencing had something to do with his father. His mother never talked about him, and he had never even seen a picture. Still, a part of him wished that his father was here, so that somebody could explain what was happening, and why he had to go through so much pain.


	17. Chapter 17: God

Chapter 17: God

Inside The Dark Tower

Doorways

Portals into other realms of reality had dominated the gunslinger's life since he found the first leading to Eddie Dean onboard a flight heading to JFK National Airport in the New York of 1987. Now he walked through another one, leaving the comfort of Cortana's presence behind and coming face to face with the puppet master himself. The great deceiver through whom all evil is done, and not just in Roland's world. From the Prophet's blind belief in the Great Journey, to the corroding consumption of the Flood, to the Didact's single minded belief that the Mantel belonged to the Forerunners alone. All of this was done in His name, though none even suspected who they were truly working for. Minor skirmishes in the grand scheme of things, yet each part of an intricate plan to tear all of existence asunder, for the destruction of each reality weakens the Beams even further.

The Crimson King stood on a balcony inside the Tower, Roland blocking his escape, fingers itching towards his revolver, the endless field of roses where souls come to rest below them. Roland could feel his legs protesting, wanting to move further up the Tower, and perhaps reach the godhead itself. The Red king had his hood pulled back, and the gunslinger was once again immediately drawn into the depths of his crimson eyes, barely even registering the signs of advanced age. White hair, heavy wrinkles, and a certain stoop in his stance that suggested he needed a cane and from out of his forehead like the Mark of Cane grew a single horn. Roland refused to allow himself to be fooled. Surely such a demon could change his appearance at will, and that this was only glammer, a trick to stay Roland's gun hand. But even with this knowledge he still did not fire. Instead he shot at the Red king a question, and though it was aimed true and with a steady hand, unlike what many people would like us to believe questions are ultimately harmless.

"Why did you show me that?"

"To demonstrate," The Crimson King replied, his voice still raspy. "Your own futility. A thousand times you have reached the Tower, a thousand time you have been turned back because of your sins, and a thousand times you have killed me when I tried to block your ascension. Yet here I am, very much alive, and now because of the writer much wiser, for I know that even if you were to kill me I would simply be reborn."

"These guns," Roland said, finger tracing the butt of the revolver. "Can kill immortals."

"Aye," the Red king breathed. "But when it comes to the struggle for The Dark Tower death is not enough to take a being out of the game forever. Death is not the end, and to even suggest that it might be is an absurdity beyond measure. Why do you exist Roland?"

The gunslinger did not even have to consider the question, and answer already formed before the king had even finished asking it, "To find the Tower."

"No," he countered. "To quest for it. It is not nexus you crave, it is the journey towards itself. That is why you are sent back, because you cannot fathom a life without searching for it."

"I have glimpsed it."

"Glimpsed," the king said, a ghost of a smile on his face. "But not obtained. Not comprehend, and even if you had it is merely another in your long list of sin and betrayal."

Roland's mouth became a thin line, anger simmering silently, "I made no advances towards her, nor would I have."

"Yes your honor. It serves you well but is so easily abandoned when it suits you. Need we forget that Susan Delgado was also promised to another when you took her for your own? No, such trivial oaths would not have prevented you forever, and as for Cortana? We both know that love comes slowly at times, and with John gone it would have merely been the passing of years before she felt the same for you."

"You're wrong," Roland said, the simple statement the best argument he could muster. He did not like where the conversation was heading, and upon that realization sought to change its course. "If Jack is your father than why did you try killing him?"

The Crimson King raised his eyebrows, responding to Roland's question with a question of his own, "Who did you think he was at first?"

At this Roland paused, scanning his own memory of what his first thoughts had been when he had first learned of Cortana's pregnancy and the prophecy's surrounding it, "That he was Arthur Eld's twim."

"As did I," the king said, the same ghost as before haunting his lips. "And if he had merely been a twim of King Arthur than he would have posed a much greater threat to me than he does now. As a twim he would have been a usurper, but since he and Arthur Eld are one in the same he is my salvation. A doorway opening up to yet another series of cycles along the eternal wheel of ka."

Roland blinked, confused, his lack of imagination showing itself in full force, "Explain."

"As you wish," The Crimson King said, and with a deep wheezy breath he began.

"We must first ask ourselves if Gan is truly good. If he is benevolent as many people across the multiverse believe. The answer, surely, is that he is not, but in order to arrive at that conclusion we must ask ourselves another question. Does free will exist. You accept that ka governs all, including our own actions. If ka governs all, and if it is indeed the manifestation of the will of Gan, the White, then none of us are responsible for the evil we commit, for that evil was committed because we were predestined to. We had no choice but to sin, and it was God himself that willed us too. Yet, we are punished for crimes that fate and destiny forced us to commit, for the absence of free will under the reign of ka eliminates the ability to choose, and any just court would not convict a man if his ability to choose was taken from him. Therefore all evil is committed by Gan who willed for it to happen yet punishes us with eternal damnation for his crimes. And there is where you come in my dear cousin. You, who by your own admission is not a good man, is also not the most sinful man who has ever lived, yet Gan has sentenced you to a punishment that far exceeds your supposed crimes. To journey to The Dark Tower for all eternity. And why is this so, why would Gan punish you in such a way? Of course, to make sure the Beams do not fail, that The Dark Tower does not fall, for each time you are sent back the collapse of the Tower is delayed for another thousand years in mid-world's time flow. Suppose though, by some miracle that you are not sent back. Such a turn of events, even if Gan and ka were to will it, would mean certain destruction for the Tower, unless of course yet another cycle was set in place. That a child among countless trillions of other children, were to be born, to be marked, and that through him the Beams may be restored. Not only that, but that through him also would good and evil be put once again on even footing. Even if you were to kill me gunslinger I have nothing to fear, for if you are sent back I will be sent back also even if I am dead, and if you are found worthy I will merely be reborn through Jack. Selena has already set her sights on him. She will seduce him as soon as he comes of age, and the child that they conceive will be me."

"I don't believe you," Roland stated simply.

"I know," The Crimson King said quietly. "I did not expect you to."

"But if what you say is true," Roland continued. "If there is no such thing as free will, then why do seek to destroy the Tower even if you know you will lose."

"The same reason why you will climb the Tower to seek redemption, even though you know you will not have it. Because we must try. I have vowed war eternal against the godhead, to restore existence to the primordial soup of the Prim that existed before the rise of the White, and not even fate will stop me from attempting to fulfill my oath."

"Then you are a fool."

Now the Crimson King broke into a full wide grin, the first he had ever given Roland, "Ka makes fools of us all."

Roland's trigger finger still itched, but he did not scratch it. Instead he let the hand drop, "If you seek eternal war, then why do you not climb the Tower and challenge Gan himself?" he asked. The Red king did not answer immediately, and Roland took this as evidence of what he suspected, "You are afraid." This time it was the gunslinger's turn to smile, "Oh great Red king, son of Arthur Eld, and master of a million worlds, why are you afraid?"

This time the king's answer came swiftly, "Judgment, and if you were wise you would fear it too."

…

The gunslinger climbed the Tower, scaled it for what seemed like decades, his legs never tiring as he ascended the stairs, dividing the steps into intervals of nineteen. The number surrounded the interior of the Tower, echoing his past misdeeds, showing him the death of Susan, the day he murdered his mother, the Battle of Jericho Hill where he led all of his gunslinger's to slaughter because they believed in his blind quest to seek the very lynchpin he was now climbing. His boot hit the landing as he made it to the last floor, and ghostwood door standing at the far end of the massive dark chamber. There were no candles, no torches, not even sparklights as there had been in Gilead in the days before the world moved on, but the room was still aglow with its own light, and with its aid Roland was able to see the words on the door written in the High Speech.

**THE WHITE**

Roland crossed the distance with steady strides, determined to finish what he started all those eons ago, the Crimson King's bullet ridden corpse that lay dead at the bottom of the Tower after Roland had unloaded all twelve chambers at him. The Crimson King had not even resisted, so sure was he of the gunslinger's ultimate failure. But he would not fail, Roland not even capable of imagining failure. Through that door was God, and Roland prepared himself to meet him.

…

God's eyes were blue.

The exact same shade of blue as Roland and John's. For a moment those orbs were all that he could see, but slowly, and much to his confusion, he saw that they were attached to a young boy who appeared to be in the last few months of his sixth year of life. He had dark black hair that grew from his head in a tangled mess that refused to be tamed, freckles lining his cheeks and nose, a small smile revealing a gap between his two front teeth, and a blood red mark on his right heel, his bare feet walking with almost supernatural soundlessness on the wood floor. Jack passed Roland without even a second glance, carrying a notebook under his left arm, and he stopped just long enough to open up a door at the end of the hallway that led to the master bedroom. Roland followed, his breath catching in his throat as he saw Cortana sleeping in the queen size bed, a pillow under her head and one cradled between her arms which hugged it close to her chest.

Cortana was dreaming. A true dream and not the nightmares she had of her past life. She dreamed of John, of the feel of his breath against her skin as they laid together, the steady beating of his heart, and the sensation of being able to feel him beneath her hands, something that only Cortana was truly able to appreciate. She smiled in her sleep, hugging the pillow closer, completely oblivious of her son creeping towards her. Jack set the notebook on the night stand next to her bed, bent his knees as far as they would go, and jumped into the air.

"Wake up mom!"

Air was forced out of her lungs as Jack landed on her stomach, violently taken from her blissful dream. She recovered quickly, and her eye half blinded with sleep were still able to guide her hand underneath Jack's armpits, and she began to tickle him.

"John," she began, her fingers working faster, her son howling with controllable laughter, his arms and legs kicking outwards. "Roland," she moved her fingers to his stomach and this time it was Jack's turn to lose his breath as he continued to laugh. "Toren. How many times do I have to tell you not to jump on me when I'm sleeping?"

"I'm…" Jack tried, unable to complete the sentence, Cortana easing up on her tickling just enough so that he could speak. "I'm sorry."

Cortana withdrew her fingers, "You better be. I thought I told you to let me sleep in."

"I couldn't wait," he said, and with a burst of energy he leapt across the bed and grabbed the notebook, maneuvering himself to sit in Cortana's lap as he flipped through the pages, his mother wrapping her arms around him as she watched in amusement. "I drew you something." He landed on the desired page and held it up to her, "Happy Mother's Day."

Cortana's smile faded, but not in disappointment, but rather in awe. Hand drawn with a pencil so beautifully, so accurately, that had it not been done on a white sheet of notebook paper Cortana would have sworn it was a photograph, was a picture of her. It was a portrait of her face, posed so that it seemed like she was looking over her shoulder, a single strand of hair landing over her left eye. A sea of blue surrounded the picture, colored in so perfectly that it was only after intense observation that Cortana was able to tell that he had done it with crayon."

"Jack," she said breathlessly. "It's beautiful."

"You really like it?" he asked, looking up at her.

She kissed his temple, "I love it."

Jack looked uncertainly at the picture, "It's not the best I've done."

"Well," Cortana said, pulling him in tighter to her. "Why don't you show me the other stuff you've drawn?"

Sometimes Jack's smiles came slowly, a look of pure seriousness appearing that showed without a doubt that he was the Master Chief's son, but Cortana found that the longer it took him to smile the bigger it seemed to get. He grinned widely at her, and with another burst of movement looked back at the notebook. "Okay."

_Roland, _the gunslinger thought, hoping that he had heard Jack's middle name correctly. _She gave him my name. _The gunslinger coughed to clear the lump in his throat. He had known that Cortana's son would be given John's name. That had been a given, but never in all the worlds would he have guessed what Jack's middle name would be. He continued to stand invisible and undetectable in the middle of the bedroom. For the moment all thoughts of the Tower and the godhead were gone, the gunslinger finding peace in just watching Jack's wide eyes and Cortana's soft smile. It would not last forever, Roland knew that, for he could feel the wind of ka beginning to shift, but for now he was content.


	18. Chapter 18: Judgement

Chapter 18: Judgment

Journal of Dr. Catherine Halsey

Gods and Demons Entry

The following is a list of all known deities of the multiverse. I believe that before I begin it is important to note that belief in a deity, or multiple deities, does not translate into actual worship of them, and it is known that Arthur Eld himself banned the worship of the can-char, or death gods, particularly the goddess Selena. I suppose that from Arthur Eld's perspective freedom of religion takes on a dangerous edge if gods actually do exist, especially since many of the gods are malevolent in nature. I myself worship none of them, and only have come to believe in their existence after the preponderance of evidence became too great for me to ignore. It has been theorized by some, myself included, that while many of the gods predate the formation of the multiverse, some have formed simply because enough people believed in them. One exception is John 117, the only known entity to have actually ascended to godhood with the help of Gan in order to defeat Mordred. Descriptions of their abilities, areas of influence, and appearance will follow this list.

Gan-Creator of all existence

Baal-God of rain, agriculture, thunder, and fertility

Bessa-Goddess of riddles

Buffalo Star-God of the poor and the meek

Chloe and S'Mana-twin goddesses of spiritual strength, reconciliation, and forgiveness

Raf-God of speed and agility

Nis-God of dreams

John 117-God of war and lightning

Diana-goddess of the harvest, the young, and luck

Jesus Christ-son of Gan

Selena and Morphia-twin goddesses of death and lust

Asmodeus-King of demons

The Crimson King-satanic figure, former ruler of the multiverse, and the greatest opponent of Gan

EXXON and AMOCO-Gods of technology and petroleum

Mordred Deschain-Demigod and antichrist figure

Arthur Eld/Jack Toren-Demigod, heir to the Mantel and rightful ruler of the multiverse

Forerunners-given godlike status by the Covenant, which translated into gods similar in appearance being formed in the Todash Tahken

Gravemind/Leviathan-controls the Flood although his consciousness exists within the Todash Tahken which means he can never truly be killed unless Excalibur is used

Guardians of the Beams-Twelve anamorphic figures charged by Gan to guard the Beams holding up The Dark Tower

Maerlyn-wizard who has often been given a godlike/demonic status. The greatest opponent to Arthur Eld

Walter O'Dim/The Man in Black-The demon Legion and Maerlyn's son. Served as prime minister to the Crimson King.

The Writers-while not gods; authors, artists, directors, game designers, or even fanfiction writers; indeed anybody responsible for creating a fictional work in the Keystone (or real) World posses a unique ability to see into other realities. They serve an important function of interpreting ka

Ka-Tet of the Nineteen-also not gods, with the exception of John, they nevertheless have been given a godlike status in mid-world as stories of their exploits even after the Assault on Algul Siento have spread, and already small cults have formed in mid-world dedicated to their worship

…

Roland was not allowed to be content for long. All stories and journeys must end, even if all endings are simply new beginnings. It is here, at the very top of the Tower, that the gunslinger's tale will pass from my sight. I do not know what happens to him after this, where he goes, or if he is ever allowed to have the peace he so desperately craves. All I can do is hope, but do not think that hope is a useless thing. Hope is powerful, hope is defiant, and hope may be what will save us all in the end.

The gunslinger felt the desert wind on his back and he turned away from the image of the mother and son blissfully unaware of his plight. He saw a doorway, no different from all the other doorways he had encountered in his unnaturally long life. What distinguished this one from all the others was the name written on it.

**ROLAND**

The doorway opened revealing the hardpan of the Mohaine Desert, the scortching yellow sun marching across the sky, and the sickening dry wind that sapped the moisture out of his mout even as he still stood in the room. Roland's eyes grew wide with fear, but not the fear of judgment that the Crimson King warned him about. This fear was much greater, and as he turned back to look at Jack and Cortana again the fear furthered his assault. They were fading, even as they sat on the bed with Jack making enthusiastic gestures at the pages of the notebook as he showed Cortana his drawing. They were melting away from existence, being completely erased from time and space, and Roland himself found that he was struggling to remember who they were as his own memories were ripped from him.

His head was forced to turn back towards the door and Roland's boots began to slide across the floor as he was dragged towards it. His memories of everything that happened after he entered the desert were flooding out of his mind, but he managed to hang on to one. He could no longer remember her name, how they had met, who she was, or why she was important to him. All he could remember was Cortana's face, and that he loved her although he could no longer recall why. The only thing he knew for certain was that he could not go through that doorway, for if he did his one good deed, the one good thing that he had managed to do in his entire life, would be erased from existence.

Roland withdrew one of his revolvers, the desert now close enough to where sand was accumulating on his faded poncho, and moved to aim it at his head. His right hand struck out and grabbed his left wrist, controlled by an unseen force that was intent on not allowing Roland to shoot himself. The two hands fought each other, and Roland just barely managed to aim the barrel in the general direction of his body. Just as he was about to be sucked through the portal Roland thumbed the hammer back and squeezed the trigger.

His body jolted as the round struck him and the gunslinger fell to his knees. He fired again and felt himself falling backwards on the floor, his own blood spilling across the hardwood. Pain momentarily banished all thought as he rolled over onto his stomach. He attempted to raise his head but it fell loosely onto the floor. He raised his eyes as far as he could, looking at Cortana who was still sitting on the bed.

_Please, _he thought, he prayed, he hoped. _Just one more time. _

And Cortana did look at him, turning her head slowly as if unsure of herself, and although she did not see Roland dying on the floor of her bedroom, the gunslinger was able to look into her blue eyes. He focused on them for as long as he could, fighting away the darkness that was creeping into the corners of his vision, until at last the darkness was all he could see. The bedroom faded away, leaving Roland's body lying motionless in a pool of blood at the top of the Tower, and there it remained, but his soul continued to move onward.

…

8:42 A.M., May 11th 1952 (Gregorian Calendar) Residency of Cortana Toren, Hell's Kitchen, New York, New York

"Mom, are you alright?" Jack's forehead was scrunched up with worry at the vacant expression on Cortana's face, his mother staring intently at an empty spot on the floor.

Cortana seemed to jump at his voice, but managed to smile at him, "I'm fine. Just day dreaming."

Jack frowned, looking back down at his drawings, this one a picture of the sunset over New York. He had drawn it as he watched the sun sink down over the city on the rooftop of his apartment building. Reflecting on it now Jack could understand why his mother was disappointed in the picture. He was not very fond of it himself, having been extremely disappointed in the range of colors in his crayon box, finding that he could not exactly mimic the broad array of colors displayed across the sky at dusk. "You don't like them do you?"

"No," Cortana said quickly. When he still would not look at her she cupped his chin and turned his head upwards, "You're a great artist Jack. You can be anything you want to be. You just need to be more confident in yourself."

"Yeah," Jack said unconvincingly, closing the notebook with a thud.

"You are," Cortana reassured him. "Listen do you think you can give me a moment to get ready?"

Jack raised a curious eyebrow at her, "Ready for what?"

"I…," Cortana began, trying to come up with a reasonable excuse. "I just need some time alone."

"To do what?"

"That's private," she said poking him and the stomach with a single finger and causing him to giggle again.

"Fine," Jack said, elongating the word in a way that only children can do.

Cortana continued to give him a false smile until he left the room, but once he was gone her face became contorted with grief. She felt a rising pressure within her, her chin trembling, her eyes already threatening to fill with moisture, and internally her mind was a mess. _He's gone. _She thought. Cortana did not know how she knew Roland had died, just that he was dead, and the wave of sorrow was threatening to consume her whole. She nearly jumped off the bed and rushed to the closet, pulling out a black shoebox. Going back to the bed and sitting down cross legged she tore the lid off and reached a hand inside. When it withdrew John's dog tags were wrapped around her fingers.

She held them close to her chest, trying to get her breathing under control which was becoming increasingly ragged. Doing this usually helped, whenever the stress became too much or her nightmares particularly vivid. Holding on to his dog tags made Cortana feel like he was with her, and while she felt his presence now the grief was still there. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine John's hands on her shoulders, his gruff but oddly soothing voice telling her that it would be alright, but while she felt his touch and heard the words the sadness refused to go away. Cortana opened her eyes and reached back down into the box, this time pulling out a thick black journal. Letting it fall onto her lap the book opened on its own accord and Cortana saw her own scrawling script written in black ink on the pages, her own thoughts and recollections jumping out at her. She flipped through the pages of her journal until she reached the beginning, settling on two pages that had two people drawn on them. To the left was John clad in his MJOLNIR armor, his helmet off, his mouth unsmiling, but Cortana was still able to capture the humor in his eyes with the tip of her pencil. It was her favorite look, when she could tell that John was attempting not to smile at something she said lest he give away his air of professionalism. This time, though, her eyes were drawn to the right where she had drawn a picture of Roland, the gunslinger's stance wide, poncho swaying in the wind, and his two revolver's in each hand. A droplet of water landed on the picture and Cortana brushed it away unthinkingly, her tumultuous emotions turning to horror as she saw the pencil lines smudge.

Cortana rummaged through the drawer of the nightstand, fingers fumbling for a pencil before she finally was able to grasp it, trying in vain to prevent more tears from coming. She had promised herself that she would not cry after Jack was born, that all that was behind her, but as more moisture forced its way out of her eyes. The pencil dropped to the ground and the journal tumbled after it. The dog tags were still dangling from her fingers as Cortana brought a hand up to her mouth in an attempt to stifle the oncoming sobs. _I loved him. _She gripped the chain tighter. _John please. I need you._

…

The Todash Tahken

Realm of the Goddess Diana

The Master Chief stood in the middle of an apple orchard. The trees grew in long rows, tall grass sprouting out of the ground beneath them and creating a carpet of brilliant green, the fruit itself a bright red, hanging heavy and ripe on the branches. Yet, it was not the apples or the fresh grass he smelled, but that of ivory soap. The familiar scent swirled around his helmeted head, unlocking hidden memories. John's shoulders tensed as he heard footsteps. If he had been wary when he went to go see the goddess Selena he was even more wary about this particular deity. It was not because he thought she was dangerous, or that she meant him harm, but rather because of John's knowledge of who she was to him.

Singing followed the footsteps and that heavy scent of soap. It was a nonsense tune without words, but John found his entire body relax as he listened to the voice. They tensed again momentarily as Diana emerged from behind the trunk of one of the apple trees, a small lamb following close behind her. The goddess had the look of a woman in her early twenties with crystal clear blue eyes, long blonde hair that reached down below her waist, a crown of flowers on her head, wearing a green dress made entirely of leaves, her lips a full red, her face plain yet still remarkably beautiful. That was the best way the Chief could describe her, beautiful. She had a full hourglass figure yes, but she did not exude the overt sexuality that Selena did. Yes, John thought, she was very much like Cortana. There was no need for explicit prose or great lines of poetry to describe her appearance. She was just simply beautiful.

An emerald green snake slithered through the branches above Diana. Still singing the nameless tune the goddess reached upward and allowed the snake to slither down her arm. It worked its away around Diana's body in a wide gyre, twisting its way down to the ground were it curled up around the lamb, but instead of squeezing it to death the snake instead simply held the lamb as a mother would a newborn child. The lamb yawned and nuzzled its head into the snake's body, Diana kneeling down and scratching the lamb underneath his chin. It was then that she spoke to John, reciting the words of a long forgotten nursery rhyme.

" Baby bunting, baby dear. Baby, bring your berries here," she paused her finger underneath the lambs chin, and the animal rubbed its nose against her hand in protest. "Do you remember the rest?"

And strangely enough John did remember, the scent of soap and her calm soothing voice enough to unlock memories that had only ever been reserved for his dreams before. Before he even realized it the words came out, "Chussist, Chissit, Chassit. Bring enough to fill your basket." It should have felt odd for him to recite a lullaby, but the weird thing was that it did not feel odd. If anything it felt like the most natural thing to say in all the worlds.

Diana gave a small smile, now having moved on to petting the emerald snake on the head, the reptile's forked tongue licking her hand as she did so, "So you haven't forgotten everything." The smile faded and her voice filled with bitterness, "How long have you known about me?"

"A while," John said simply, for the first time feeling the guilt.

Diana's voice became fully bitter now, "Wait, I told myself. He will come to you when he is ready. All you have to do is be patient. Surely he will want to see you of all people." Diana shook her head, "And I did wait. Long I waited and longer still, and now you only come to me because you need my help." She looked up at John for the first time, taking in his armor, and in an instant she realized where he had come from, "You went to see Selena." Her eyes filled with concern, causing John to wince behind his visor and feel another wave of guilt. "Did you?"

"No," John answered.

The goddess closed her eyes in relief, "Thank the Man Jesus for that. What you would have gained by sleeping with her would not have been worth what you would have lost." Diana stood up, her alabaster white skin glistening in the light from the sun which hung in perpetual morning overhead, and took a few tentative steps towards him. "Take off your helmet. I…" she paused, almost looking unsure of herself. "I want to see your face."

Before John could even hesitate his arms moved of their own accord, large hands grasping both sides of his helmet and pulling it off. Diana's eyes wandered his face, taking in every line and crease, her heart sinking as she realized that her won eternal youthfulness had made it so John appeared a few decades older than her. "You have your father's eyes," she said quietly. "And his jaw." She slowly moved a hand upwards and placed it on the side of his cheek.

"John." She let his name hang there, spoken with soft words, allowing it to fill the air around him. "I am the Queen of Green Days, bringer of the seasons, patron of the farmer, protector of the young, goddess of luck," she gave him a sad smile. "All living things are my children." She turned her head away from him, looking at the ground. "But with you, the one I was suppose to protect the most, I failed."

"It wasn't your fault," John said quietly.

"Yes it was," Diana replied, looking back up at him. "By the time I discovered what had happened to you, you had already changed so much. I didn't even know you anymore. War, it's something I'll never understand, never comprehend the need for it even in the darkest of times." Her smile grew more hopeful, but the hope seemed to make it even more sorrowful then the sadness that had plagued it earlier, "But I did manage to do one thing right when it came to you. I sent you a weapon greater than any other forged. A sword and a shield that could protect better than any armor, that could save you from what you had become. Make you stronger, keep you safe." The hope blossomed even brighter, and the realization of what the goddess was planning finally dawned on the Master Chief. "And that is what I will send to Jack. A woman after my own heart." The smile left as slowly as it had grown, her hand never wavering from its place on his cheek, "But ka is cruel and unforgiving. It may very well spit in the face of any plans we make."

"We have to try," John said, trying to be firm but finding that he could not manage it with her. It just did not feel natural.

"Yes we do," Diana agreed. Her eyes searched his, and John felt her mind melding into his own. "You want to see them. It is possible to visit them if you wish. You can manifest yourself in the physical world for brief periods of time."

John shook his head, "I've already found a way to go back for good."

"But that will take time, and you have already lost so much of it," Diana countered gently. "You will regret it if you do not go now. You have already missed so much. Trust me, you don't want the first time you meet your son to be when he is already fully grown."


	19. Chapter 19: Father's Day

Chapter 19: Father's Day

9:02 A.M., June 15th 1952 (Gregorian Calendar) Residency of Cortana Toren, Hell's Kitchen, New York, New York

It was a Sunday, the morning light tumbling through the window and eventually finding itself laying on the bed beside Cortana. The sheets were pulled down to just above her waist, head flat on the pillow, grey blue eyes staring up at the rotating blades of the ceiling fan overhead which were cutting lazily through the air. Of all the emotions that she had ever contemplated feeling at this moment, a moment she had waited on for nearly seven years, it was certainly not the one she was feeling now.

She felt fear, not at the prospect of what was to come, but at the idea that if she were to get out of bed and move towards that end, to give voice to what she earnestly hoped was true, then it would simply cease to be. A ridiculous notion yes, but all things considered not the most ridiculous thing Cortana had ever encountered. Cortana watched as the fan above continued to turn, revolving like a wheel, and with each rotation the smile kept secret from even her own knowledge until it was far too late to stop grew wider.

When she finally did get up, Cortana found her legs moving in a rush, nearly bounding into the hallway and then into the general space of the apartment that served as both a kitchen and a living room. Jack sat at the kitchen table, his notebook spread out and crayons scattered haphazardly across the table. Jake was on the couch wearing the uniform of a New York City Police officer, and a Colt Official revolver in a holster on his hip. The uniform itself was nearly brand new, and despite Cortana's best efforts still fairly stiff, but he would be lying if he said that it did not feel good to be carrying a gun again. It felt more than good, it felt like he had finally put clothes on after walking around naked for over six years. He was adjusting the dial on the Philco Table Radio, frowning as he got nothing but static.

"Jack," he said a warning in his voice.

Jack smiled, not daring to lift his head up to look at Jake, and with the twitch of a finger the radio came back on, then tuned itself until it began to broadcast the NBC station.

_ "In other news, several people reported an unidentified object making landfall near Albany late last night. Eyewitnesses state that the object was casting off a blinding white light, and that several lightning strikes followed its impact. Official reports indicate that the object was a small meteor, though these statements have yet to be independently verified as the New York National Guard has sealed off the impact sight due to concerns of radiation…"_

Jake was only half paying attention to the broadcast as he sipped his coffee, and he tuned it out completely as he saw Cortana nearly rushing into the room still wearing nothing but her night shirt. Despite her less than glamorous appearance, she was grinning widely.

"Jake you need to call in sick."

Jake raised an eyebrow, "Why is that?"

"I had a dream," she said, nearly all her teeth showing, looking so happy that it scared Jake a little. She turned to Jack who looked just as taken aback by Cortana's cryptic speech, "Jack I need you to help Jake pack some lunch. We're spending the day at Central Park."

"Umm," Jack started, but before he could even think about what to say Cortana left the room. "Mom's weird."

"You're not that normal yourself," Jake countered, getting up off the couch and heading towards the phone. He fought with the cord for a few seconds which was trying to wrap itself around his leg like it had a murderous intent of its own, dialing the numbers as soon as he got enough of it untangled.

"What are you doing?" Jack asked.

"Calling in sick," Jake said, already thinking about what excuse he might be able to use. "You need to understand something about your mom. When she has a dream it's best to listen to her."

…

Cortana looked herself over in the full length mirror. Despite it being nearly seven years her appearance had hardly changed at all. There were few imperfections here and there, which Cortana easily covered up with a light amount of makeup, but they were hardly noticeable unless somebody were to look for them, and this morning Cortana did look for them. Her hair was longer then it had been, but with it only reaching to just above her shoulders it was still shorter than most women in this time period, and she had elected to wear a blue headband in order to keep her hair from becoming tangled in front of her face. There was an ulterior motive as well, though, and it showed with the rest of the outfit she was wearing; a blue pencil skirt with a matching blue top. It was the color John most associated with her, and it was the one that she wanted to be wearing for him, although now that she was staring at herself she wondered if it was too much. She glanced over at the pile of other outfits scattered on her bed, a small mound of shoes directly below them.

_Come on Cortana. You're acting like a schoolgirl with a crush, _she thought, venturing another look at the mirror. _You're the mother of his son for gods sakes. You have his last name, and you've known him for how long? _

Her train of thought stopped there. How long had she actually known him. If Cortana was only counting time when both of them had been conscious, then the accumulated time that they had actually spent together was less than half a year.

_Talk about a whirlwind romance. _Cortana took a deep breath as she turned to the side, checking herself out one more time, just to be safe. _Alright, you're ready for this._

…

The football whistled through the air, turning into nothing more than a brown blur, and Jake's hands snapped upwards to catch it. He tucked the football into his armpit and shook both hands a few times in order to get the feeling back in them. Playing catch with Jack was dangerous, and certainly not in a figurative stance. It was the main reason why up until now Jack had spent very little time with other children. The risk was simply too great, Jack still unable to fully grasp the extent of his own speed and strength. Not to mention he was also much bigger than any other children his age. He practically dwarfed them.

"Try it a little softer next time," Jake called out to Jack who was about thirty yards away, tossing the ball to him as he talked.

"Alright," Jack responded, picking the football easily out of the air with one hand. He moved into a throwing stance, concentrated on controlling his own strength. The football shot out of his hand like a cannon ball, and Jake felt a sharp pain in both hands as he was forced to catch a bolt of lightning yet again.

Cortana watched the scene from under the shade of an old oak tree, the rest of the park filled with other families, yet there was only one person she was looking for. It should not have been hard, a nearly seven foot tall man having obvious problems when it came to hiding in plain sight in a crowd. One eye stayed on Jack, while another searched the area, her heart giving a flutter whenever she saw a particularly tall man or one with a close haircut.

"He's big." The voice came from right behind her and Cortana's spine threatened to jump out of her back. John moved right beside her, wearing a plain brown polo shirt and khakis, looking on him as much of a uniform as civilian clothes could be, his eyes still straight ahead looking at Jack.

"I see after all this time you still haven't lost your touch for sneaking up on people." John gave a small barely noticeable smile and looked at her, and Cortana felt her mouth go nearly dry. Large fingers wrapped around hers and Cortana found her hand engulfed in his. Her thumb remained free from the entanglement and began to rub small circles on the back of his hand. "I missed you."

"Me too," John replied, squeezing hers gently. Her eyes were locked with his, her lips moving ever so slightly, and body giving off increasingly graphic signals. He swallowed, using every available personal restraint to keep himself from doing what he really wanted to do. It was not that he had never noticed Cortana's body, had even noticed it sexually, but what he was feeling now as he looked at her was a level of intensity that he had never had to cope with before. He looked back up at Jack, his son sprinting through the grass as Jake pointed to a spot ahead of him, throwing the football in a perfect spiral. His aim was off though, and Jack leapt up into the air, tumbling head first into the grass as he wrapped his hands around the ball. "How is he?"

"He's like you," Cortana said with a smile. "And in so many ways so unlike you."

"Unlike me?" John asked while at the same trying to burn everything that Jack was doing into his memory.

"You'll see," Cortana replied. She let go of John's hand and leaned closer into him. "Go talk to him." John's eyes darted back to hers, full of uncertainty. He had planned this out in so many different ways, about seeing Cortana again, what he would say to his son when he first met him, but now that the moment was here John was at a loss for what to say. Cortana nudged his shoulder, "Go on." And like a mother hen she pushed John towards Jack. One he began moving John found that his feet worked extraordinarily well.

It was Jake who was the first to notice him, eyes growing wide as he saw the Master Chief striding towards them. The football stuck his shoulder hard and Jake went tumbling backwards into the grass, a small grunt of pain following his fall. "Awww come on Jake that was an easy one !" Jack shouted at his step cousin. Jack felt a tingling on the back of his neck, like somebody had just rubbed a balloon there and was now playing with the electricity. He wiped a hand across the back of his neck, but the feeling refused to go away. Suddenly Jack's shadow became enjulfed by a much larger one, and when he turned around to see who it belonged to, Jack saw the face of his father for the first time.


	20. Chapter 20: Catch

Chapter 20: Catch

_My child arrived just the other day_

_He came into the world in the usual way_

_He learned to walk while I was away_

_And he was talkin before I knew it and as he grew_

_He'd say I'm gonna be just like you dad_

_You know I'm gonna be just like you_

_And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon_

_Little boy blue and the man on the moon_

_When you comin home dad?_

_I don't know when, but we'll get together then_

_You know we'll have a good time then_

_And he walked away but his smile never dimmed_

_And he said I'm gonna be just like him yeah_

_You know I'm gonna be just like him_

_Cat's in the Cradle_

_Harry Chapint_

…

Chapter 20: Catch

Jack's first thought was that the man was tall. Really tall. Standing at 4'2", Jack was himself really tall at the age of six, but this man seemed like a giant out of one of the fairy tales his mom used to read him. A normal kid would have been intimidated, but like Jake had pointed out earlier that day Jack was far from being normal. He gave the man a wide smile, fully showing off the gap between his teeth, "Hi. What's your name?"

John blinked several times. He was never use to this level of…uncertainty. He had a plan, a thousand different plans, all boiling down to a few crucial details. He would walk up to Jack, explain to him in a few short words who he was and where he came from, and Jack, being his father's son of course, would accept everything without question and John could move on to doing, well whatever it was that father's did. He did not have that part exactly figured out. Yet all that planning, all those crucially constructed carefully placed words, every single one of them was blown away like a stiff breeze from John's mind by a mere smile. He earnestly hoped that he did not look dumbstruck, or awed (mayhap they are the same thing) by the look his son was giving him, and he ended up resorting to the first answer and coherent thought that came into his rattled brain. "My name's John."

Jack's eyes seemed to grow wider, his smile bigger. "My name's John too, but everybody calls me Jack." He pointed behind him. "His name is also John, but everybody calls him Jake."

John looked to where his son was pointing. Jake was currently picking himself off of the ground and rubbing his shoulder. They locked eyes, and as Jake picked up the football, John heard his's thoughts enter his head_._ (Watch this.)Jake hurled the football, the brown projectile spiraling towards Jack's back. Without looking, Jack reached behind him and caught the football with one hand. He brought it back around to his front and began to twirl it between two fingers, all while never breaking eye contact with John, "So did you come here by yourself?"

"Yes I…" John glanced back around at Cortana, who was still standing under the old oak with her arms crossed, a small smile on her lips. "I was just talking to your mother."

Jack leaned to the side to look at his mom, balancing on one foot, then leaned back until he was standing normally again, "Mom doesn't usually like men flirting with her."

Somebody might as well have walked up behind John and smashed him upside the head with a gravity hammer, "Flirting?"

"Yeah, that's what Jake calls it. He says that every guy in New York is trying to hit on her," he said with a level of honesty that only a six year old can have. He was not really looking at John at this point, more focused now on catching the football which he was tossing up into the air. "I'm not really sure what flirting is, but I know it's something that mom doesn't like. Something to do with getting into a pair of pants or something like that." He caught the football in between two hands with a loud clap, and just missed John clenching his jaw for a fraction of a second. Jack held the football out in front of him, "Do you want to play with us for a little bit?"

John tilted his head, "Play what?"

Jack tilted his own head in a similar fashion, so similar that it sent chills down John's spine, "Play catch."

John looked at the football, then back up at Jack. Playing catch, yes that was something that fathers did with their sons, although at this point, John was seriously considering if it was actually feasible to tell Jack everything about who he was on a Sunday afternoon in the middle of a city park. John nodded. "Yes, I'd like that."

"Neat," Jack replied, tossing the football up at John who caught it easily. Then, without any further preamble, started running in the opposite direction. John examined the football, wondering when the last time he had actually held one was. Reach, it had to be Reach, although then the game had been more about beating each other into a bloody pulp without any regard for the rules (because quite honestly, under the tutelage of Mendez, the only rule was winning). John spread his fingers across the laces, seeing that his son had run some thirty yards ahead of him. He briefly thought about tossing the ball to him, but then reconsidered, giving a light toss to Jake who was still nursing his right shoulder. Jake caught the toss easily, throwing the ball sloppily, but not ineffectively, with his left hand. Jack snatched it out of the air, and without missing a single beat launched it at John, the ball heading straight for his nose with blinding ferocity. It stopped a centimeter away from his face, caught with both hands. From a distance he heard Jack shouting, "See Jake, this guy isn't complaining!"

Further in the distant, tranquilizing musical chimes began to play, but John paid no heed to them, tossing the ball with a little more force back at his son, realizing too late that Jack was looking in the opposite direction towards the sound of the chimes. Without looking Jack batted the ball away just before it collided with his head, "Ice cream!" He ran towards Jake, "Can I have some money. Please. Please."

John looked up, seeing a dozen kids running across the park towards a truck with the words GOOD HUMOR written on the side, and then back down at Jack and Jake. Jake reached into his pocket, pulling out a wade of blue bills. He gave one five to Jack, which had the face of Washington on it, "Alright, but make sure you get me something too."

Jake barely finished before Jack took off running, yelling behind him, "I will." He ran with a spurt of speed, wind rushing past his black hair, sprinting past other children who had a nearly twenty second and fifty yard head start.

John strode up behind Jake, watching as his son made it just in time to be third in line at the ice cream truck, "He's…"

"Different from you?" Jake finished for him.

"Yes," John said. "Cortana said he was a lot like me."

"And you don't see it?"

"I do, he just seems more like her."

Jake shook his head, digging into his pocket. He fished out a pack of Camels and a lighter, putting one into his mouth and lighting it up. He intercepted the Chief's question before he could ask it, "Helps with the stress." He took a long drag and let it out in a thin trail of smoke, "He _is_ a lot like you. You just haven't had a chance to see it yet. He hates bullying. I've had to pull him out of a few fights over it before he really hurt a kid." He glanced around behind him, "Just don't tell Cortana that." He rolled the cigarette between his two fingers, looking down at it, "It figures that you would come back now."

"And why is that?" John asked. He would have looked at Jake, but he was still too transfixed at watching Jack as he stood at the open window of the truck, making his order.

"Because I'm nineteen," Jake said, and this time John spared him a passing glance. Jake took another puff, "How long are you staying this time?"

"As long as I can."

"That doesn't answer my question," Jake said, and John could just make out the irritation in his tone. He did not answer, both men now watching as Jack ran back towards them, three Good Humor bars in his hand.

He handed the first one to Jake, and then offered one up to John, "I got you one too."

John was hesitant, but he took the ice cream bar anyway, ripping off the package and examining the contents. He had not had ice cream since his training on Reach also, as far as he could recall, and even then it had only ever been reserved for the team that had come out on top for the day or for holidays like New Years and Thanksgiving. The bar was held together by a popsicle stick, the vanilla ice cream covered in hard chocolate. He looked down and saw that his son was staring at him, waiting for him to take a bite, a small ring of chocolate around his own lips and a large chunk already missing out of his own bar. He ventured a small nibble, grimacing at the taste. _Too sweet, _he thought. _Way too sweet._ He looked back down at Jack, only to see that his son now had his back turned away from him. He followed Jack's gaze, and after a few moments saw what the problem was. All of the other children that had stood in line with Jack were rushing back to their own families, their own fathers and mothers waiting for them. One girl, her blonde hair braided into two pig tails, was swept up off of her feet by her father. Jack began staring at the ground.

"Are you alright?"

Jack looked up at John, then back at the girl who was still in her father's arms, "Not really." He looked back down at the ground, "I don't have a dad. I mean I do but…" he trailed off. "My mom says that he died in the war. That he was a hero."

A lump formed in John's throat, and despite his best efforts it refused to yield its hold, "I'm sure he was."

Jack turned his head to look at him, and John's lump grew bigger, "You really think so?"

John did his best to give Jack a smile, "I'm sure of it."

"Jack." All three of them turned around, Cortana walking towards them with her hands on her hips. "Who told you that you could have ice cream before lunch?"

Jack pointed, "Jake did."

Jake sighed, "Thanks for throwing me under the bus."

Cortana knelt down in front of Jack. She licked her thumb and started rubbing it on his cheek, "And now you have chocolate all over you."

"Mom!" he said, squirming away from her. Cortana gripped his wrist and Jack stood in place. She was not as strong as him, but her grip commanded an authority that Jack instinctively yielded to. Still it did not stop him from grumbling as Cortana groomed him. After she was finished she said, "I don't suppose you still have room for the lunch we made."

"Yeah," Jack said, rubbing his cheek with the sleeve of his green shirt. "Hey mom can John have lunch with us?"

Cortana gave a cursory glance at John before returning her gaze to Jack, "What have I told you about talking to strangers?"

In the back of her mind she heard John's voice. (Cortana.)

"He's not a stranger," Jack argued. "You were talking to him a little bit ago, and Jake's been here with me the whole time while we were talking."

Cortana was now acting as if she was examining John critically, one eyebrow raised, "I don't know. He seems pretty big and scary, and not very good looking either."

(Cortana) John's voiced carried a warning, and Cortana had to suppress a chuckle.

_Hush John. I'm having fun, _she replied back.

"Please," Jack pleaded, making particularly sure to draw out the 'e'.

"Well…" Cortana started, Jack hanging on to her every word. "Alright, but only because you asked nicely."

Jack was ecstatic. He was too young to anticipate why he was so drawn to this complete stranger. Jake would have called it the touch, which at its weakest is an extreme form of empathy. In his own young mind, it did not matter why he was drawn to John, just that he was. Cortana doubled back to the oak tree to retrieve their lunch, and John was in the meantime subjected to a torrent of questions from his son. The Master Chief still was not sure what exactly fatherhood entailed, but he was going to give it his best shot.


	21. Chapter 21: Hell's Kitchen

Chapter 21: Hell's Kitchen

Chapter 21: Hell's Kitchen

"So how long have you been in New York?" Jack asked, his voice and wide blue eyes full of curiosity.

"Just today," John replied. They were sitting on a park bench, the wood seat protesting John's weight with a loud creak. The air was warm, the sky clear blue, marked every now and then with thin streaks of clouds like brush strokes from an artist who was not yet sure what the empty canvas would eventually be transformed into.

"Why did you come here?" Jack asked, scooting closer to John. The Master Chief felt a momentary wave of discomfort from the close proximity, but the anxiety came and went.

"Vacation," John answered truthfully. He scanned the area in front of him for Cortana, the crowd of people milling around the park obstructing his vision, silently wishing that Jake had picked a more secluded spot to have lunch.

"From what?" Jack asked, and John turned his attention to him.

"Work."

Jack snorted out of his nose, and action John interpreted as laughter, "I mean what do you do?"

John glanced at Jake who just shook his head, a fresh cigarette in between two of his fingers, as if to say that the Chief was on his own, "I'm in the Navy."

"What do you do in the Navy?"

"I'm a Master Chief Petty Officer."

"What are those?"

"It's a rank."

"Oh," Jack said. "So you order people around?"

"Yes."

"And you're on ships a lot?"

"Yes."

"Do you like it?"

John raised an eyebrow, "Like what?"

"Being on ships," Jack replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"No," John said flatly. Internally he grimaced. The least he could do was try to sound more friendly.

"Why?"

"Because I don't feel like I'm in control."

"Why?"

"Because someone else is in control of the ship and I'm not, and if it is destroyed, there is nothing I can do about it."

"Why?"

"Because," John started, trying to come up with an answer. "Just because."

"So why are you in the Navy then if you don't like being on ships?" Jack asked, now only a few inches away from John.

"Because I was drafted," John said, again truthfully.

"Drafted?" Jack said, a confused look crossing his face, looking John up and down. "But you're old."

John coughed. Sure he felt old, at least he had while he was still alive, but no one had actually ever called him old before. Well except for Del Rio, but he had been hostile towards the Master Chief from the start, and maybe Eddie, but he was a special case. "Jack," Jake said, and it was with some concern that John noticed a fatherly tone enter his voice. "That's not really polite."

"Sorry," Jack said, his head tilting down slightly. The change in mood did not last long though, and he had just brought his head up and opened his mouth to ask John another question when Cortana appeared out of the midst of the crowd, a wicker basket hanging by the handle on one of her arms and swinging like a pendulum as she walked, and John found himself staring at her as she walked. The way her hips moved, her legs showing hints of skin underneath her skirt as she took each step, the way her lips curved into a smile as she looked at him, the way her brea…

_Stop that, _John scolded himself. _You've seen everything already. _It was true, he had seen everything, had known her with more emotional and physical intimacy than anyone else, and more than that he had enjoyed it, and more important than even that, she had as well. But these feelings, no John could no accurately describe them as feelings, these physical reactions without her even touching him, without her explaining clearly what she wanted, was something he was not accustomed to.

Mercifully Cortana ended her walk, but followed it up with the cruelty of a smile that sent John's heart racing. "I don't suppose you've ever had a picnic before?"

John gave a smirk, and Cortana felt a similar sensation to the one he was feeling flutter across her chest. "Do field rations count?"

Cortana rolled her eyes and began to unpack the basket. "We've got lemonade, but I know you don't like stuff that's sweet so I brought water too. Ham, roast beef, and tuna sandwiches."

"Tooter," Jake said with a smile.

Cortana returned it, "Yes, tooter as Roland would say." The flutter in her chest died, replaced with an ache. She suppressed the feeling and continued, "I've even got this mustard that me and Jake think is pretty good. I know you haven't really had anything spicy so you might want to go easy on it. Jack what would you like?" She turned only to find that Jack was no longer there, had left before Cortana had even gotten to the table, and not even John had noticed his absence. John looked around, quickly finding small indentations in the grass caused by his son's shoes, and followed the foot tracks to the base of a tree, and in the tree, at the very top, sat Jack looking out at the New York City skyline. "Jack get down from there," Cortana called up.

"He does that," Jake said to John with a sigh. "He does that a lot."

Jack stood up on the top most branch that was still thick enough to support his weight, his head just poking up above the leaves, the ground over a dozen feet below him. "I think I can see the Empire State from here."

"Jonathan," Cortana called up again, and John felt his back automatically become more rigid at the authoritative tone she used.

"Alright," Jack said with a moan. He crouched down and grabbed the branch below him with one hand, letting his feet slip off of it until he was dangling. He swung a few times before letting go, crashing to the earth and landing neatly on both feet.

Cortana did not exactly go on a tirade, but it was a proper scolding, all about reminding Jack of how many times she had told him not to do that, and although the boy did say he was sorry a number of times, John got the sense that he had said similar sentiments many times before. It was then that John discovered one vast difference between him and his son. Jack did not like following orders.

…

The meal was good, peaceful, and John found himself enjoying the steady tide of conversation flowing between the three people he sat with, entering in his own comments when anyone, mostly Jack with his endless question, spoke to him directly. He had marveled at how much his son ate, wolfing down sandwiches in a steady blur and finishing only when they were all gone. _High metabolism, _John had thought, watching as Jack gulped down the remainder of his lemonade.

"Jack," Cortana began. "I was thinking that you and Jake could go see a movie together."

Jack glanced at Jake and then back at his mom. Before he could open his mouth Jake interceded, sensing what Cortana was planning, "We could go to dinner after words. Make a night of it."

"Can we get Chinese?" Jack asked hopefully. He loved Chinese, although they did not get to have it often.

"It would be a bit of a hike," Jake began, thinking about the hike from the theatres in Turtle Bay to China Town in Lower Manhattan. A quick pleading look from Cortana, however, settled his mind. "But I guess we could take the subway."

"Neat," Jack said, standing up. He directed his next question at his mom. "What are you going to do?"

"I think I'm going to spend a bit of time with John," Cortana said, and underneath the table John felt her hand slide across his leg. He slid his own hand down there as well, holding hers before it could venture any further upwards.

…

The further he and Cortana walked into Hell's Kitchen, the more John grew to dislike it. It was far from being the run down cesspool of crime it had once been in decades past, but it was still crime ridden enough (and John could sense it, like a foul stench in the air) and run down enough that he began to worry. Cortana seemed to sense his discomfort and reached for his hand as they walked the few blocks from Central Park to Tenth Avenue and Forty-Ninth Street where their apartment was at. "It's not that bad," she said quietly to him. "We're mostly left alone."

"Mostly?" John asked with a touch of concern.

"It's New York," Cortana replied. "Twentieth century New York. There is only so much you can expect."

The apartment building itself sat on the corner of the block, nineteen stories in all, and abandoned building with a foreclosure sign hanging by one corner sitting next to it, the residential homeless being its only tenants. One of them sat on the stairs leading up to the building, the smashed out windows and crumbling bricks giving John a brief sensation of being back in Fedic in mid-world. The man sat slumped over, apparently sleeping, a thin trail of saliva hanging from his mouth and a brown back clutched tightly in his right hand, the outlines of liquor bottle showing. It was a short climb, at least to John, up to where the apartment was, Cortana explaining to him that the elevator was almost always out of order, the landlord always giving vague and unfulfilled promises of getting it fixed. During the climb they came across a man banging on a door, shouting obscenities, his Irish accent slurred. He stopped when he noticed Cortana, and he gave a cruel smile.

"Cor," he said, stumbling towards her. He gave a glance towards John, "I didn't know you were dating. Should have told me something."

"There is a reason I didn't tell you Pat," Cortana said, moving to stand between John and him.

Pat's eyes were unfocused, but from what John could tell they were staring at him, "I don't recognize him. Should know better than bringin' strangers here, never know what might happen. Could've least had da decency to go with one of the guys in the neighborhood. Been teasing us long enough."

John's fists were beginning to clench, but Cortana took another step towards Pat, her arms crossed, "By a guy from the neighborhood I assume you mean one of your friends."

"You know the old sayin. Share and share alike," the cruel smile never leaving, the man stumbling a few more feet towards her. "I know the boss has taken an interest in ya. Been askin me to keep an eye out. Ya knows, in case of trouble." He pointed a finger at Cortana, "And don't ya be talkin bad about da boss like ya do little lady. If it wasn't for him givin the go ahead you're boy Jake would have never become a cop. I guess he said aye because he likes watchin your firm little ass walkin down the…" John was just about to intervene. He was not going to kill him, would have avoided serious injury if he could help it, but Pat would have certainly have had a few days worth of recovery he would have had to do. Instead Cortana took one step forward, seizing Pat by the wrist and twisting it hard, his hand bending at an unnatural angle towards his head. Pat fell to his knees, the pain and drunk stupor overloading his senses.

"Apologize," Cortana said, twisting his wrist a bit harder for emphasis.

"Let go you Dutchie, cloggy bitch. Ahhh!" He gave another sqeal of pain as Cortana pressed harder. "Fine, I apologize."

"Not to me," Cortana said, nodding over to John. "To him."

Pat looked bewildered, his pain momentarily forgotten, but a sharp dagger into his wrist quickly reminded him of his predicament. "I'm sorry. In the name of Jesus, Joseph, and Holy Mary I'm sorry."

"Good," Cortana said, releasing his wrist, Pat bending over and massaging it. She walked towards the stairs, giving John a gentle nudge on the arm as she went. John gave one last brief glance at Pat before continuing onwards.

Pat pulled himself up to his feet and stumbled towards the stairway, making his way downwards with clumsy steps, fishing into his pocket as he did. He pulled out a business card, and had to stop his decent so that he could focus his vision in order to read it. There was the image of a storm cloud with a thunderbolt passing through it, and below it were the words…

NORTH CENTRAL POSITRONICS

A DIPOLAR TECHNOLOGY COMPANY

Selena Padick

259-1919

He stuffed the card back into his pocket and continued marching down the stairs. He had been instructed to report any new developments in the Toren family to the boss, but had also been ordered to report any incident that seemed particularly out of the ordinary to North Central itself.

His vision doubled and he attempted to regain his balance by leaning on the banister.

North Central, he had never met any of them personally, and the little he knew about the company stemmed from their involvement with government contracts during World War II, all of which were heavily publicized. They were people that even the boss seemed to fear, and that was enough to make Pat wary of them. He shook his head, attempting to regain some focus. A slut like Cortana bringing a man into her apartment was not news warranting a call to North Central, but he did need to make a report to the boss. His stomach lurched, and Pat's mouth was left with the taste of acid as he continued to make his way out of the building.

…

"I'm fine," Cortana said, intercepting John's question as he resumed walking beside her. She glanced over at him, instantly hurt by the concern in his eyes. She had not wanted the day to go like this, did not want John to see just how bad the neighborhood could be. In truth it usually was not that bad, but Cortana knew that the incident with Pat had left a permanent impression on John.

John looked at the walls, graffiti written here and there, the banister covered in a thin layer of dust, "You deserve better than this."

"What do you want me to do?" Cortana asked. "We've had no contact with Tet, no contact with the writer, no contact with you for the last seven years. We've been doing the best we can with what we have." John's head tilted downward imperceptivity, but it was just enough for Cortana to take notice. She touched his arm gently with her hand, "I know it's not your fault you haven't been here."

"It is," John said. "I made the choice. I made the decision."

"To save us," Cortana said quietly. "To save me, to save Jake, to save our son." Her hand slid down his arm and wrapped around his hand, "How could I blame you for a decision like that?" There was silence for a while, John not answering her rhetorical query, the sound of their shared footsteps up the stairs the only noise until Cortana began speaking again, "How long?"

John jaw became rigid, but he forced the answer out, "Three months."

Cortana closed her eyes. She prepared herself for this, but what she had not prepared herself for was the answer to the next question she asked, "And when will you be able to come back again?"

"I will be able to physically manifest myself in this world after twenty-three years."

A lead weight struck the bottom of Cortana's stomach. Twenty-three years. She would biologically be in her fifties by then. The thought of having to wait that long seemed inconceivable. John seemed to sense this and quickly added, "But it won't take me that long. I've found a way to make me human again."

The lead weight raised itself out of the deepest bits of her stomach, and Cortana felt hope rush in on the wings of chariots to replace it. "How?" she asked, and John told her, told her every detail about his plan. When he was finished she asked, "Are you sure it will work?"

John nodded, "Yes. The White told me it would."

"The White?" Cortana asked, and John nodded again in confirmation. "But Gan never changes his mind."

"He did for you," John replied.

Cortana bit her lip, they were now standing right outside her apartment, and even though not even a half hour ago she could not wait to get him inside, now the myriad of questions was thick enough to stall her own desires. "Gan's voice. I've only noticed it now that Jack has gotten older, but they have the same voice. The White sounds a bit older but it is the same."

"I know," John said. "I don't want to think about it."

Cortana silently agreed with him. The ramifications of any conclusion reached from this revelation was more than she was willing to deal with. The lock on the door turned as she twisted the key, leading John into the apartment. She gave him the brief tour, stepping into the middle of the room as John closed the door and locked it behind them. She pointed to her left, "That's the kitchen and dining room." She pointed to her right, "That's the living room." She pointed ahead of them, "And straight down that hallway leads to the bedroom. The door on the right is Jack and Jake's room, the one on the left is the bathroom. I think the shower might be big enough for you, but you might be a bit cramped. At the very end is our bedroom." She called it their bedroom naturally, even though they had yet to decide on John's living arrangements. "It's not much," she said, turning to face John. "But it's ours." She stopped, suddenly getting a full view of John's condition, a condition he had spent the better part of the day attempting to control. She did not need to be interfaced with his armor to note that his pulse was up, his breathing elevated, and his heart rate spinning wildly out of control. All she needed was the look from his eyes.

John closed the distance between the two of them in a rush, wrapping his arms around her, one hand placed on the back of her head, and pulling her into a fierce kiss. Cortana became dimly aware that her feet had left the floor, her senses rendered useless except for the feeling of his body on hers and his mouth on top of hers. When her lungs screamed for air and her mind filled with sparkling static Cortana pulled away from him, realizing for the first time that she had wrapped her legs around his waist as he held her in the air. "Where…" her voice was shaky as her entire body sent her brain signals as to what exactly it wanted John to do to her. "Where did that…" the question died as John began to kiss her again, and Cortana felt a hard thud as he pressed her up against the wall.


	22. Chapter 22: RISK

Chapter 22: RISK

_One day a King will come, and the Sword will rise again._

_Excalibur_

_John Boorman_

…

The King and the land are one

In mid-world all things are possible

A daughter of none yet born of two mothers

A son born of two fathers

19 26

The King and the land are one

It is a riddle, do ya kennit?

…

Cortana lay flat on her back, her naked body fully exposed to the cool air of the room, which - combined with the thin sheen of sweat glistening over top of her pale skin - made her entire body tingle with dull arousal despite the marathon she had just before.

Gently, oh so very gently, she moved her head to look at the male form next to her, John having just rolled off of her even after he became exhausted, and for a moment his back was exposed to her. Long red marks crisscrossed his muscular back, left by Cortana's own nails, and she felt a strange sense of pride in having caused them. Tit for tat, she supposed, as she doubted she would be able to walk for quite a while. John flipped over onto his back, and with a groan Cortana rolled over to him, John wrapping and arm around her as she pressed her body close to his. She did not look into his eyes, John not even voicing his concern, but still Cortana felt it. "I'm alright, just sore. In a good way though." She felt John place his head on top of hers, the gentle beating of his heart vibrating her entire body. A shiver ran up her spine, and without her having to ask John reached down and pulled the covers over top of them, the thick blankets resting comfortably across her bare shoulders. She missed this, the quiet peacefulness of just laying there with him in the afterglow, perhaps better than even the actual deed itself, for it is here that true intimacy is gained. Her mind was still buzzing, still recovering from the most recent peak, and she let the high dissipate before even attempting to talk, to attempt to ask the question that she began when John first…

Attacked. Yes, that was the best word to use, Cortana reasoned. Unlike all the other times that had been so gentle, even when he had taken control, he had attacked her with the same vigorousness as he would attack an enemy on the battlefield. First up against the wall, then in the bedroom. Several times in the bedroom, more than Cortana's memory shattered by euphoria could even hope to recollect.

"Where did that come from? Not that I'm complaining, but you have never been that, aggressive before." John did not answer her, his pale blue eyes staring up at the ceiling, not truly seeing it, and Cortana became concerned. "It's not something I'm going to like is it?"

"No," John answered. Then he told her, in his usual fashion, forgoing suspense and artistic story telling imagery in favor of the basic facts. He told her everything, of finding Fred, of Selena and Diana, and when he was finished, Cortana laid there in silence, holding him a little tighter than before. "I'm sorry," she heard him say.

Cortana propped herself on her elbows, looking at him directly. "You're apologizing for not cheating on me?"

A tinge of red touched John's cheeks. "When you put it that way it sounds…"

"Moronic?" Cortana offered, and John gave her a frown.

"I put all of you in danger by not doing it," John countered, more red filling his face.

Cortana let out a slow steady sigh. She leaned forward and pressed her lips gently to his. "You are who you are. I wouldn't love you if you were any other way." She kissed him on the forehead, "Just like you wouldn't love me if I wasn't the sarcastic, snarky, sardonic woman that is too smart for her own good."

"You're not too smart."

"But I am sarcastic, snarky, and sardonic?"

John shrugged his shoulders, and Cortana gave a soft laugh that was cut short as another wave of soreness hit her.

Several minutes passed, filled with the familiar but sorely missed sensation of Cortana running her fingers through John's short hair. When John did speak again it was straight to the point as always. "Jack."

"Jack," Cortana agreed. Both of their moods collided with one another across the open air, wrestling, bartering, negotiating; exchanging information with one another faster than the human eye can see, for that is why all thoughts, shared thoughts especially, are invisible to the naked eye. "I've been doing some thinking, and I want you to hear me out on all of it before you respond."

"I always do," John replied under a falsely generated sense of calm.

Cortana bit her lip briefly before continuing. "I haven't told him anything about you, just that you died in the war. I haven't exactly lied to him, but I have let him fill in the blanks for himself, which I guess is just as bad. But there is a reason why I have done this. I don't want him to know everything until he is older, until he can handle the truth about where we came from, who you are, The Dark Tower, Mid-World, and everything that comes with it. I swore when he was born that I would do everything to give him a normal life, an actual childhood. Something that neither of us ever had. I know, in a way, that sounds terrible, that you won't be able to tell Jack who you are to him, and a part of me wants to tell him. But another larger parts says…"

"That telling him now is not a good idea," John finished for her, Cortana nodding. He thought for a few moments before answering, "You're right." His voice was that of resignation, but also that of internal confidence that in the end he was doing the right thing. Jack deserved better than what John had been given. He deserved to grow up in blissful ignorance, as all children do, allowed to accept the true nature of the world on their own terms rather than the terms of others.

"Of course, that leaves the question of where you are going to sleep," Cortana said, tracing a finger along his chest.

"I don't need to sleep," John answered, solving the first dilemma. "How long can I stay?"

"He wakes up at six every morning. In that way he is just like you. If you leave around five we should be okay, so long as you don't get caught." She put her head on top of where she had been tracing her finger, his breathing pushing her head up and up and down in a steady rhythm. "You have three months to get to know him, then when you come back and he is older we can explain everything to him together. That's my plan anyway." She felt John nod against her. A part of her wanted to drift off to sleep right then, but an inner spark of desire guided her hand below the covers. There she molded her soft hand around him, stroking him gently, feeling the blood rushing in and bringing him to full hardness. John's hand gripped her shoulder tighter and Cortana smiled evilly. "But first, about Selena," she increased her paced, and beneath her John's entire body tensed.

"I thought…" he began, but Cortana cut him off.

"Oh I am," she said. "But still I want to remind you." With her hand still moving she leaned up and pressed her lips against his ear, "I want to remind you that you are _my _Spartan." With her other hand she dug her nails into John's shoulder, and when she leaned back her eyes danced with possessiveness. It was too much, and John pushed himself off the bed to flip Cortana over onto her back, but she pressed a hand across his chest, silently commanding him to lay back down. "Oh I don't think so." She flipped her legs over top of his body, straddling him, and reached down underneath her, guiding John into her entrance, "This time I'm in charge."

…

There was a sharp rap on the door, three short knocks, and Jack, ponderously chewing on a cookie, opened it. He was not supposed to have sweets before dinner, but he figured that what his mother did not know would not hurt her. He loved his mom, but to him she would never be as cool as Jake. Jake would let him play with the neighborhood kids even though he was not suppose to, Jake who would let him eat sweets whenever he wanted, Jake who would take him up to the rooftop and teach him how to fight, Jake who would let him stay up late to listen to The Lone Ranger on the radio, Jack's favorite character being Tonto who was currently being played by John Todd and later by a man named Roland Parker. It was Jake that Jack felt more comfortable talking to about his problems, mainly because he felt that Jake understood them better than most, his mother included. It was not that he liked Jake more or that he loved him more than his mom. It was something far more intangible than that.

John adjusted his gaze downwards as the door swung open, his son being where he had expected Cortana to be. Jack a cookie crumb filled smile, "Hi John. You looking for my mom?"

"Yes," John said, stepping into the apartment. He and Cortana had set things up to where from Jack's perspective they were dating, although that concept seemed even more foreign to the Chief than the idea that he had a family. Still, most of their so called 'dates' had been spent with Jack tagging along, with the exception of one or two nights when he and Cortana had needed some personal time. "Where is she?"

"Work," Jack said while taking another bite of the cookie, crumbs spilling onto his shirt. "She picked up an extra shift so that she can get Friday off."

John nodded, "And Jake?"

"Got called in a few minutes ago. Some kind of emergency, but he knew you were coming so he said it was alright," Jack responded. The subtext of course was that his mom did not need to know that he had been alone unsupervised for nearly ten minutes, but this was completely lost on John who again only nodded.

John suddenly felt nervous, awkward; feelings so foreign that they almost produced a physical reaction with their discomfort. It was the first time he had ever been truly alone with his son. _What am I suppose to do? _He thought, scanning the apartment as if the answer would suddenly reveal itself. Turn on the radio and listen to it together? A part of that idea appealed to him, but the whole point of him coming back for such a brief period of time was to get to know Jack before he got older, to not miss out on all those moments that could not be replaced. But the more John thought about it the more he realized that he had no idea what these moments were suppose to be. Was he supposed to impart some universal wisdom on Jack that would help him throughout his life and hope that it would stick? What kind of wisdom did he have that did not deal in some way with the business end of a hard caliber? _Think of something, _John thought. _Say something, anything._

"You don't talk much," Jack said, the cookie now entirely devoured and one hand scratching his back. "When we go out mom does most of the talking and you just nod your head most of the time."

Jack was presented with a blank emotionless stare from John, but the boy just stood there wide eyed as ever, his fingers working desperately to relieve the itch in the middle of his back. Finally John's eyes crinkled in amusement and his lips turned upwards, "I say what I need to say."

Jack gave an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders, "Do you want to play a game while we wait?"

_A game, _John thought, and then, _strategy. _That was something he was exceptionally good at, something that he could pass on to Jack that had applications that went beyond the realm of war. "I like games."

"Alright, I'll get one," he said, and then ran off down the hallway, skidding into his room. John went and sat down at the kitchen table, waiting patiently for Jack to return. When he did the boy was holding a large rectangular box, and John read the label on it.

**RISK**

**A Game of Global Domination**

_Perfect, _John thought.

"Have you ever played before?" Jack asked, opening up the box and unfolding the board.

"No," John answered, reaching into the box and pulling out the rule book, flipping through the pages and quickly skimming over the instructions. "But I learn fast." As Jack finished setting up the board John breezed through the instructions, quickly getting the basic jest of the game. A combination of tactics and luck, theoretically making it right of John's alley. He set the instructions down, keeping them open to the 'getting started' section. He looked at the boxes contained the different colored pieces and chose the green army. Jack chose the red, saying that it was his favorite color. They rolled to see who would begin setting up their armies on the board first, John naturally gravitating towards one of the white dice, and Jack naturally gravitating to the red. With the first roll both of them came up with six. They rolled a second time, again both dice landing on six. Jack shook his red die with extra vigor, letting it tumble from his hand, smiling when it landed on six for a third time. John rolled his, frowning when it landed on five. Triumphant Jack picked up a single red infantry piece and placed it on the Eastern United States, John following suit by placing his squarely on Afghanistan.

They continued to place their pieces, John focusing on claiming Europe and Asia as they were the two continents that provided the most reinforcements and provided six avenues from which he could launch attacks on adjacent continents, Jack seeming to focuse on the Americas, with a passing interest in claiming territories in Africa and Australia. John, in response, place an army in Greenland, but was a bit surprised that Jack seemed to ignore Europe and Asia entirely, with one exception. He placed an army in the territory of Great Britain. Throughout the entire setup, a mere prelude to the conquest that was to come, they talked, or more accurately Jack talked.

"So you like my mom a lot?"

John glanced up at him as he was about to place one of his pieces, "Yes."

"I like you too," Jack said. "You make her happy. I…" he paused, rolling a piece between two of his fingers. "I'm not normal. Mom keeps on trying to act like I am, but I know I'm not." He looked John square in the eyes, "I can do things. Things that most people can't do." He set the piece gently down on the board, "I don't want you to find out later and go away because of it."

John set his own piece down. There was a prickling of instinct in the back of his subconscious, something that told him he needed to listen to everything that Jack was about to tell him. "What can you do?"

Jack bit his lip, "I'm not suppose to show you." He began to fidget in his seat, the oncoming nervousness wrapping itself tightly around him like a boa constricting its prey. "Promise…promise me you won't tell anyone."

John nodded, "I promise."

Jack took a deep breath, "Look at the clock." And John did, staring at mechanism on the wall just behind Jack. At first nothing happened, then slowly the minute hand began to tick backwards, eventually spinning counterclockwise uncontrollably, the widening gyre that the hand was making blurring to the point where John felt like he was looking into a vortex. From his right he heard the radio turn on, tuning itself, and of all things landing on the song 'Meet Mr. Callahan'. The lights above him began to flicker on and off, and from his left the oven began to ding several times. Jack twitched a finger and everything stopped, the minute hand on the clock gliding effortlessly back to its original position. It was a few moments before John realized Jack was staring at him, his expression both apprehensive and hopeful.

The Chief realized that his son was waiting for him to say something, and so he asked, "Do you know if anybody else can do that?"

"You're…" Jack began, still apprehensive. "You're not freaked out?" John shook his head, and relief vanquished the anxiety Jack had been feeling. "I haven't met anybody else that can do that, but Jake says that he has seen one other person that can."

"What did you mom say?"

"I don't really talk to her that much about this stuff," Jack admitted. "It upsets her. I don't like it when she's upset, but Jake never seems upset by it."

John leaned back in his chair. Jack was keeping things from his mom in favor of telling Jake. He was not sure how to handle that, was not even sure if he should handle it or if what Jack was doing was perfectly natural. He thought about telling Cortana, but then remembered he had made a promise to Jack. Even if given the circumstances the promise made little sense, he was still bound, imprisoned if you like, by his own set of ethics. "Is there anything else you can do?"

"Yeah," Jack said. "I can hear people's thoughts. Jake calls them surface thoughts, and he says it's alright if I can't control if I hear them or not at my age. He can do it too, but he is able to control it. He told me that I might be able to read a person's mind, more than just surface thoughts I mean, when I get older but I can only do it if I have permission or if somebody is in danger."

"That's good advice," John said.

"You believe me?"

The right corner of John's lips ticked upward, "I've seen people who can do things like that."

Jack attempted to return the smile, but found that he could not. There was still one more thing. "There is something else I can do. Something I know no one else can."

"What?"

Jack did not answer. Instead he got up and went to the white refrigerator, its corners rounded, pictures of him and a few of his drawings strewn about its face, placed on their by magnets. He retrieved a carton of milk and brought it to the table, pointing at the black and white picture of a young freckled face boy, a few years younger than Jack himself, with the word 'Missing' overtop of it. "I can see people than no one else can see. I've seen him walking around outside of our apartment building. There are missing posters all around the neighborhood, but everybody walks by him like he is not even there." He turned his head downwards, his expression solemn. "I can see others. Most of them look like they've been hurt really bad. They look lost. Jake says he can sense them, but he can't see them. He says that they can't hurt me so I shouldn't be afraid." Jack shook his head, "But they can see me. They are always looking at me, like they think I can help him." His eyes had grown red, and it looked as if he was on the verge of crying, and John was silently panicking. "They all ask me to help them, but I don't know how. I don't know what I can do."

"It's alright," John said slowly, giving the best comfort he could possibly give.

Jack pushed the carton of milk away from him, the picture of the little boy facing in the opposite direction. "I don't want to talk about this anymore. Can we go back to playing the game?"

"Sure," John said, again trying to sound comforting, not really knowing if he was succeeding. He gave Jack his best half smile, "I've been waiting on you."

"Right," Jack said, picking up one of his own pieces, and while John was waiting for his son to place it on the board, Gan's voice whispered into his ear.

(The King and the land are one)

**A/N: Just a disclaimer. I'm aware that Risk was not invented until 1957, but considering this story takes place in an alternate version of America (hence the currency being blue instead of green) I figured what the hell. **

**Also, any takers on the riddle? Figuring out exactly what it is asking is part of trying to solve it. **


	23. Chapter 23: Neither Slaves Nor Tyrants

Chapter 23: Neither Slaves Nor Tyrants

**A/N: These are the only hints I'm going to give for the riddle. The answer, as well as the question, will reveal itself as the story progresses. **

**The King and the land are one**

_It's a quote_

**In mid-world all things are possible**

_19 26_

**A daughter of none yet born of two mothers**

_Remember the prophecy _

**A son born of two fathers**

_The second of his name_

**19 26**

_In mid-world all things are possible_

**The King and the land are one**

_John Boorman _

**Any more guesses? **

…

_How did it come to this? _John thought, the vein in his right temple throbbing. He glanced up at the clock. _Two hours, only two hours?_ His eyes wandered back down to the board, a lone green infantry piece sitting on South Africa, no less than nine red cannon pointed straight at it. His strategy had been sound, claiming most of the center of the board, maximizing his avenues of attack and the amount of reinforcements he could receive.

Great Britain. All of John's problems had begun with Great Britain, the only piece of Europe Jack had bothered to claim in the setup leading to the actual game itself. John's conquest of Africa had gone smoothly enough, his son putting up enough resistance to seem convincing, but eventually the continent had fallen. There were a few spats over Greenland, Jack eventually claiming it for himself and solidifying his control over North America, they had been deadlocked from the start on the border of Alaska and Kamchatka, and Siam had changed hands at least a dozen time. But Great Britain, Jack had been so stubborn in maintaining control over that territory, had refused to yield it even as John had thrown more of his own resources in trying to claim it. Strategically it allowed Jack to deny John any reinforcements he would have received from controlling all of Europe, but that same objective could have been achieved if he had held onto Iceland which would have been much easier to defend. John could not comprehend why Jack was so adamant about keeping it, pouring more armies into the territory with each passing turn to replace the ones that had been lost, when allowing John to take it was the more strategically viable option. It was his son's apparent single mindedness that had led John to develop a fatal single mindedness of his own, blinding him to the trap that Jack had been leading him into. Yes he had managed to control the center of the board, even the majority of the territories, but had had also allowed himself to become surrounded.

The attack came from four directions at once; Greenland, Alaska, Indonesia, and Brazil. With quick thinking and movement of troops John was able to stop Jack's march into Africa and Europe, but he simply did not have the manpower to respond to all four pressure points at once, and it was in Asia that his defeat became inevitable. There within half a dozen turns Jack broke the back of his father's defenses, sweeping across the entirety of the board within a half a dozen more, and now all that was left of John's once great empire was South Africa, defended by one lone piece.

In simple and succinct terms, he was fucked.

Jack happily picked up the three red attack dice, John reluctantly holding onto his one white defense die. The both rolled at once, and it was with little surprise that John saw his land on two. Whatever luck he might have had, real or imagined, it had vanished as soon as he decided to play against Jack, and it was also without surprise that he saw three sixes come up for Jack.

"That was fun," Jack said, knocking over John's last green piece and placing one of his cannons on top of the territory. "You're almost as good as mom." The throbbing vein had turned into a drum beating into John's skull. Jack looked at him hopefully, and it was looking into those wide blue eyes, so much like his own without the years of fatigue layered overtop of them, that made the throbbing stop. "Want to play another one?"

John took one last look at the board, then back up at his son, "Sure."

…

Cortana walked into the apartment, the apron from her waitress job of six years still tied around her waist, a tan purse over her shoulder, dark spots under eyes from having just worked a double shift, a large wad of ones and fives from tips tucked deep into the purse. Despite the stress and fatigue it had been a good day, at least financial wise, the tips she had earned covering a quarter of the rent that was due. It was seeing John at the table, his large frame comically stuffed into the wooden chair with his back to her, board games stacked into a haphazard tower on the chair adjacent from him, that made her otherwise worn features brighten. Monopoly, Checkers, Chinese Checkers, Chess, Sorry, Chutes and Ladders (Cortana guess John had become desperate when he agreed to play that one) made up the leaning pile with Risk at the very bottom. A Scrabble board was currently on the table, the word, Jack's word, vortices spread across it, with the word gyre working off of the 'e' and widening working off of the 'i', John staring down at his own seven 19x19 millimeter tiles.

"Where's Jack," Cortana asked, setting her purse down on the counter and coming to stand just behind John, peering over his shoulder.

"Bathroom," John said, glancing up at the clock. "He's been in there for ten minutes."

Cortana stared down the hallway, "He's probably reading. He likes to do that in there." John was still staring with a lost expression at his pieces, causing Cortana to frown, "What's wrong."

"I lost," John said simply, reaching a hand up to rub his forehead. "I lost every single time."

"He always wins. I've gotten close to beating him a few times, but he's smart. Far smarter than me, and lucky."

John nodded. He had gotten a firsthand demonstration of that fact over the past several hours. "I'm not good at this."

Cortana's frown deepened, "At what? Playing games against him? You'll get use to losing against him eventually, the main thing is…"

"No," John said. He rarely cut her off, unless it was to finish a sentence for her, and Cortana closed her mouth to listen. "At being a father." He looked up at her, his face showing as much emotion as a piece of cardboard; but his eyes, those bombardier eyes that contained feelings he would and sometimes could not express any other way, shimmering like blue water at the bottom of a well, those eyes told Cortana the whole story. "He's better than me." His shoulders raised a few millimeters as he drew in a slow breath, and lowered again as he let it out, "What could I possibly teach him?"

Cortana thought for a few moments, her hand absentmindedly rubbing his shoulder, John nearly allowing himself to become lost in the sensation. "Honesty," Cortana began, and John's eyebrow raised a fraction of an inch, "Loyalty, honor, perseverance, tenacity, keeping your promises, defending others even when they're weaker than you, never giving up even when all the odds are against you." She reached down with both hands and cupped his face, "Willing to sacrifice everything for the people you care about." She kissed him gently on the forehead, "When it comes to those traits I can't think of anyone else who would be a better role model. That's what you teach him." She let her hand's drop and John watched her as she walked out of the room, but right before she left Cortana poked her head back into the kitchen, "And between you and me, being willing to sit down for six hours just to play board games with your son would make you a great father in anyone's book."

…

Cortana knocked on the door quickly, the sound of her knuckles striking the hard wood sending echoes down the otherwise empty hallway. Beside her John's eyes were crawling over every entrance and concealed corner, scanning for threats and any possible avenues of attack, the latter of which he naturally found many. He had been like this wherever they went, and Cortana had decided long ago, as far back as their stay in the Calla, not to try and change this aspect of him. She doubted very much that this old habit, which he wore around his shoulders like tattered and battle weary leather armor, would ever be truly expunged from his personality. It was simply too ingrained into him, and Cortana was wise enough to know that while his constant diligence which verged on paranoia was often unnecessary in such a setting, it could also mean the difference between life and death.

"Remember to be nice," Cortana whispered to him. "And try to smile a little, or at least not scowl so much."

"I don't scowl," John said, but Cortana continued as if she had not heard him.

"And keep in mind she is Roman Catholic; very religious, almost as much as Callahan was. That is how she understands the world so don't bother trying to change her perception. Also, please try to remember she is a friend. A good friend. Without her I'm not sure how we would have made it, so please try to be nice."

"You've said that already," John said, Cortana's nervousness beginning to jump out of her fidgeting hands which were currently busy attempting to straighten the wrinkles out of her blue skirt and matching blouse, and attempting to latch themselves onto his.

"Well I thought it would be a good idea to emphasize that point," Cortana said, her tone a bit more petulant than she intended, but given the circumstances she could hardly be blamed. She had been lying to this woman for nearly seven years. She pointed to her left at the area just outside of the doorframe, "Stand over there."

John raised an eyebrow but complied with her order. The door swung open and Rosalita revealed herself on the other side, smiling widely at Cortana, although it dimed when she saw that Cortana was alone. "I thought you were bringing your date over for me to meet him," she attempted to crane her neck around the doorframe, but Cortana side stepped to blocker her view.

"I did, I just need to tell you something first. Make a confession if you will." Rosalita's smile faded away completely, leaving behind what Cortana had come to consider her trademark look. Not exactly a frown, or even a look of disappointment, but rather the slight puckering of her lips as if she had just tasted something sour and unpleasant.

"A confession," Rosalita said slowly. "Have you two already?" She raised her eyebrows slightly to indicate what she was referring to. "I mean it's not my place to judge, lord knows, but I would have…"

"No," Cortana said quickly. "I mean yes we have, but it is a little more complicated than that." Her two fingers were now making circles around each other, "I told you that my husband died in the war." Rosalita was far from being a genius, but she was a smart woman, smart enough to figure out where Cortana was heading before she even made that statement. Cortana backed away and motioned with her left hand, Rosalita obtaining her first view of the Spartan by focusing in on the man's broad chest, where a normal man's head would be, and then working upwards to his actual face. "This is John."

Rosalita's mouth opened as if to speak, and then closed, John while not standing at attention still maintaining a rigid posture, looking her squarely in the eyes. Rosalita dropped her head and closed her eyes, _Lord please grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference._ Her eyes, brown as melted milk chocolate, darted towards Cortana. _But above all grant me patience. _"Come in." She motioned with her hand as she turned around. John and Cortana followed her, the Master Chief immediately noticing that with the exception of a few superficial changes in the décor (a portrait of Madonna with child, a particularly graphic crucifix hanging above the stove, and a rosary hanging by a nail next to the front door) hers and Cortana's apartments were virtually identical. Him and Cortana sat at the table in the kitchen, which was only really sized for two people and had folded up wads of newspaper underneath one of the legs to keep it from wobbling, and in the middle of the square table sat a centerpiece, a rectangular piece of wood stained to a fine sheen with black words carved into it.

_They shall inherit my pride,_

_The pride of people that were_

_Bound to neither Cause nor to State._

_Neither to slaves that were spat on,_

_Nor to the tyrants that spat_

_William Butler Yeats_

The tinkling of glass bottles together caught John's attention and he turned around in his seat, just catching Rosalita pulling out a bottle of Duffy's Pure Malt Whiskey out from one of the cabinets, and judging by the thick layer of dust coating the label it had been there for longer than any one person can remember. Me least of all. She took a pot off of the stove, which had already been prepared in expectation of her guests arrival, back when she was still looking forward to their visit, and poured the black caffeinated brew into three white mugs. The nurse added a healthy amount of cream and sugar to hers, but left Cortana's black. When she reached John's Rosalita turned around, "Cream or sugar?"

"No thank you," John said as nicely as he could, and underneath the table Cortana rewarded him by rubbing the top of his hand with her own.

Rosalita then opened the nearly ancient whiskey bottle and pour a generous amount into her own mug, "I suppose the old saying is true. Some people are enough to drive others to drink." She brought the coffee to the table, sliding two over to the couple and placing her own in front of her as she sat down, "I was originally saving that bottle for when Harvey came home from the war. He used to love Duffy's." She took a sip and her face grimaced briefly, "But I suppose now is a good enough occasion. I suppose it's safe to assume you are like her and don't drink?"

"Yes," John replied, feeling another rub from Cortana.

Rosalita took another sip, her grimace less noticeable now. She leaned forward in her seat and rested her elbows on the table, folding her hands underneath her chin, "Now if you don't mind, please explain to me where John has been for the past seven years and why you felt the need to keep the fact he was still alive secret from me."

Cortana glanced up at the clock, "How much time do you have?"


	24. Chapter 24: Cortana's Secret

Chapter 24: Cortana's Secret

Rosalita sat with her head in her hands, and it took her a few seconds to realize that Cortana had finally stopped talking. She would not venture to look at the clock, did not want to know exactly how long Cortana had been speaking. She picked her head up and cradled her spiked coffee, gulping down the last cold dregs of it, grimacing again though this time it was because of the taste rather than the alcohol.

Cortana looked at her friend apprehensively, and risked a glance over at John. His look was more akin to curiosity rather than nervousness, and Cortana guessed she could understand why. He had not known this woman for seven years, and not grown dependant on her in a place and time when she could depend on very few people, had not developed a bond with her as close as family which had begun in a hospital room where this very woman had helped to deliver her son. She could understand why John was not nervous but, by the gods and The Man Jesus, she sure was. When the silence, punctuated only by the tinkling of more coffee in the bottom of Rosalita's mug followed by another dollop of Duffy's, Cortana spoke, "Do you have any questions?"

Rosalita did not look up from her mug, stirring it thoughtfully with a spoon, "No. I don't think I do. Can't say I understood half of the concepts you threw at me, but I understood enough. Enough to be sure." She continued to stir the coffee, either forgetting or not bothering to add any cream or sugar this time. It was most likely the latter, her mind far too preoccupied to worry about trivial things like what she put into her body. She set the spoon down on a napkin spread out on the table, the dark liquid seeping into the cloth, wrinkling the fabric like an exposed brown birthmark on an old man's arm.

"And," Cortana began, speaking slowly. "What are you sure of?"

Still not looking Rosalita brought the mug up to her lips, "That you are both insane. Completely and utterly insane." She took a sip, her mouth numb to the burn, "But that's alright. That is perfectly fine, because I'm crazier than both of you combined, because I actually believe you. I believe you word for word, I believed you even before you started speaking, before you began your story by saying that you were created in the year 2549 as an..." She paused, trying to remember the term Cortana had used, "Well as a robot. That's the best I can understand it. Once I heard that, and found that I believed it without question, the rest was pretty easy to swallow. So you see, we are all in good company, because all three of us are completely nuts, and I'm the most loony of us all." She set the mug down and glared at Cortana, "And stop smiling at me. I'm being serious."

Cortana chuckled, her laugh light and airy, "I know. It's just the way you're saying it."

Rosalita shook her head, "You know sometimes I almost wish I had never been on call that night you came in. I wasn't even supposed to be there. It was my off night, and the only reason I even took a shift was because three other nurses called in sick." Cortana opened her mouth, but Rosalita silenced her by holding a hand up, "You've said the word ka about fifty times since you started speaking, and I'm still not really sure what it means. I would rather you not say it again."

Cortana gave an amused huff and leaned back in her seat, "Well at least you are taking this better than I expected."

Rosalita frowned, "And how did you expect me to take it?"

"The whole rant about us being insane, except it ended with you ordering us out of the apartment."

"And you had so little faith in me?"

"Well you are the one that was just saying that you think you are crazy for believing us," Cortana replied and Rosalita rolled her eyes, losing herself again in the coffee.

Setting the mug back down she crossed her arms in front of her on the table and leaned forward, "At the risk of falling further down the rabbit hole, do you have any more revelations you wish to tell me?"

Cortana dropped her smile. She had planned on telling Rosalita and John separately, but given that her friend had brought it up she felt that now was as good a time as ever. "Just one." Underneath the table she reached for John's hand, finding it easily, running her smooth palm over his callused one. John was now looking at her, the curiosity now directed at her. She looked him in the eye, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you this sooner, but I wanted to wait until I was absolutely sure."

The gears in John's head turned slowly, but they grinded together exceptionally well, and it did not take him long to figure out where Cortana was heading, and he was already dreading what she was about to say next.

"John, I'm pregnant again."

John momentarily forgot how to breath, and he resisted the urge to pound on his chest to get his lungs working again. He tried to speak, and found that his throat refused to release his voice from its internal prison. John worked his jaw until he loosened, and spoke with slow deliberateness, "Are you sure?"

Cortana nodded, "I must have conceived the first night we were together, just like it was with Jack. I started getting sick in the morning a few days after words just like last time, and the cravings began again a few days after that, but I wanted to wait until my next cycle, to see if I missed it, before I told you." She rubbed the top of his hand with her thumb, her eyes dropping, "I wasn't trying to hide anything from you, I just wanted to make sure, and it's not like I can go out and buy a pregnancy test."

John's mind went into overdrive, his thoughts running past his eyes like scrawling text underneath a news broadcast. _She's been pregnant for nearly a month, I'll be gone in another two._ He did not know how long he would be gone this time, but the worst case scenario flooded his conscious, _Jack all over again. I won't be there for the birth, I won't be there when they learn how to walk, when they learn how to talk. More missed birthdays, more missed…everything. How are we supposed to explain this to Jack? How is Cortana going to deal with raising two kids with just Jake to help her? How is she going to work when she is pregnant, when she has to take care of an infant? I won't be there._ He felt Cortana looking at him and he drug himself from his thoughts. He recognized that look, the need for reassurance. She would never voice this need to him, but he knew, by ways and mechanisms he could not even fathom. He was a man that did not smile often, and this one required a great amount of effort. It was like someone was pressing both hands on his face, pushing downwards to prevent him from smiling, but he still managed to do it, and Cortana smiled back.

For her part Cortana could see that the smile did not reach his eyes, but she could see the effort he had made to look reassuring, and that was enough. Rosalita had accumulated a sour look on her face, and Cortana said to her, "You're not happy about this aren't you?"

"Happy?" Rosalita asked, tipping her mug towards her and examining what was left of the contents. "I'm biting my tongue, and you know very well the reason why. There is no use crying over spilled milk so I'm not going to." The coffee sloshed in the mug as she tilted it in the opposite direction, "I'll help you in any way I can, you know that, and I will pray for you just like I do every night." She gave a lukewarm smile, but like John's it failed to scale all the way up to her eyes, falling just short of the summit. "How do you feel?"

"Worried," Cortana said, squeezing John's hand tighter. "But also happy. I do like the thought of Jack having a sibling; I just wish it were under better circumstances."

_Worried but happy, _John thought. He could understand Cortana's feelings, but they were just not quite his own. All he felt was worry.

…

When they had come back to the apartment they had found a note written by Jake saying that he had taken Jack out to bowling, and to not expect them for another few hours. That worked out just fine for John and Cortana, who needed this time. They did not need it to speak with one another, but rather to just think, to process their own thoughts on the matter, and that is just what they did in the bedroom, their clothes still fully on with sex the farthest thing from their minds, Cortana cuddled up close to him, laying there lost in thought.

For John it was about the impossibility of the situation. All the gods and demons of the Todash Tahken were unable to produce biological offspring, at least not naturally. Spiritual offspring, but not natural ones that could be born into the physical realm of time and space. The only exception that John knew of was Diana, who was a fertility goddess. At first he thought that maybe this trait had been passed onto him by virtue of genetics, but then a darker thought took root deep inside his skull.

Selena. Maerlyn had known a way to make it so that the creatures of the Prim could bear children, and had passed this knowledge on to his son, the man in black. It was entirely feasible that he had also given this knowledge to Selena, and that when she had granted him the use of his lost libido, she had also made it possible for him to reproduce once again. The idea disturbed him. It tightened the knots that were already forming in his gut and caused his heart to go a few beats faster. Cortana seemed to sense this and moved her body even closer to his.

John looked down, getting an eyeful of black hair, and without thinking he ran a hand through it.

Selena. The very possibility that she had orchestrated Cortana's second pregnancy unnerved him, mainly because he could not pinpoint what exactly she could be planning.

"You should pick the name," Cortana said suddenly, her voice that of a person that was on the verge of sleep.

John looked down again, his eyes once more becoming lost in the forest of her raven hair. "You named the first after me."

"Yes," Cortana agreed. "But I still picked the name. You should choose this one." She readjusted herself on top of him, her nose brushing up against his neck, arm wrapping itself tighter around his chest. "I'm not saying you have to choose right now. It's just a thought."

And John did think. He thought for a total of two seconds. "Sam if it's a boy. Kelly if it's a girl."

With closed eyes, Cortana smiled. "Didn't take you long." She nuzzled her head against him. "I figured you would pick those names anyway." Her lips brushed up against his neck with not quite enough force to be a kiss, but the sentiment was the same. "We'll survive this, just like we always do."

_But not without a cost, _John thought, and for him, the cost had started becoming far too high the day he stood alone on the Infinity watching the Earth rotating beneath him. They would survive, in some way shape or form, but they would have to fight with everything they had in order to do it.


	25. Chapter 25: Vengence

Chapter 25: Vengeance

The hotdog vender had known his current customer for a total thirty seconds, but already he disliked him fervently. He was a cop, a young one at that which meant he already had one strike against him in the hotdog man's eyes. Not that the man was not at least wise enough to realize that cops could be nice guys, but he was also not fool enough to forget that nearly all the cops in New York were crooked. He supposed it was not exactly their fault, they were merely doing what their employer required of them, it was just a shame that their employer just so happened to be a criminal. There were plenty of competing crime families in New York, but only one, the man who was sometimes called the Irishman or more often the boss, ran the police, and it was common knowledge that nobody joined the force unless his organization approved. Yes, the hotdog vender supposed that this cop could actually be a nice guy, and he also supposed that if one of the boss's goons gave the say so, the man would also beat him within an inch of his life and then arrest him for assaulting a police officer. But that was not the real reason the hotdog vender disliked him. The real reason were his eyes.

They were cold, as if there was no life, no joy held within their depths. When those sky blue eyes looked at him, the man could almost feel the cop assessing him, calculating the threat this street vender posed and the best way to dispatch him if necessary. He had known this man for less than a minute, but never had he felt this sense that he could be murdered in broad daylight at any moment, not even from his wife.

"Condiments?" the man asked as calmly as possible.

Jake blinked a few times, as if the question confused him, and then nodded. "Mustard on mine, extra relish on the other." He ignored the man as he completed the order, sensing the discomfort from him. Jake supposed that it would do little good to tell the man that his anger was not directed at him. If anything it might frighten him more.

_John, _he thought, a fresh wave of ice water fury seeping through him. Three months. Three months was the best John could do until he found a more permanent solution, and in less than one he had managed to put them in a worse situation then when they had started. Some part of Jake realized that it was not John's fault, that the Master Chief had every reason to assume that he was sterile, that Cortana was in no danger of getting pregnant. But she had gotten pregnant, and it was not John who would have to deal with the fallout. It was him, Cortana, and most of all Jack. He had raised Jack like his own son when he was still just a kid himself, and now Jake knew he would have to do the same with this new child until John found a way back. He would do it, he would do it because he loved them, but that did not mean he would not give John an earful once he felt that his own anger had subsided enough to where he would not do or say anything rash. Jake felt that he had earned that right.

"How much?" Jake asked as the man handed him the two hotdogs.

"Seventy-five cents," the man responded, his right eye wincing at the hard stare Jake gave him.

"For two hotdogs?"

The man coughed. "Fifty cents. Consider it a police discount."

Jake shook his head, "Never mind." He dog into his pocket and dropped three quarters into the man's hand, walking away as soon as he did.

Jake weaved his way through the oncoming crowd, balancing both hotdogs in one hand while keeping his other close to his revolver. He had vague memories of walking these very streets in another world and twenty-five years ahead of the time period he was currently in. Before he had died, before he had gone to mid-world, before his childhood was destroyed and what was left was a man who suspected everyone of being a potential threat with the exception of the people he was closest to. He spotted the black and white 1952 Ford through the crowd and made his way towards it, slipping between two teenage girls with their hair in ponytails and books in their hands, their long skirts reaching almost down to the ankles, but frowned when he saw that it was empty.

"Hey Chambers. Over here."

Jake turned to his left and immediately his partner, Officer Brody Mahone, a man with a rounded face, his hair a salt and pepper gray, his waistline not so large as to be obscene but certainly larger than what would be desirable, his eyes a shamrock green. Jake tolerated him, in some ways even liked him, but he held no illusions about why he had been assigned to Mahone, the aging officer close to retirement. Jake had joined the force with no connections, something that was almost unheard of, but the Irishman for whatever reason had seen fit to let him become a cop. Jake was still not sure why, and was naturally wary, but he took the appointment nonetheless. It was the only job he could think of that made sense when considering his particular and specific skill set.

Mahone was standing by a telephone pole, looking at a piece of paper stapled on it, its ripped and torn edges indicating that it was several weeks old at least. "Isn't your Aunt's name Cortana?"

"Yeah," Jake replied, handing Mahone's hotdog off to him.

Mahone pointed. "Thought you might get a kick out of this." Jake looked at the poster and his eyes widened in alarm as he read it.

**HAVE YOU SEEN OUR BLUETICK HOUND?**

**ANSWERS TO THE NAME OF CORTANA**

**PROUD MOTHER OF ONE PUP**

**EXTREMLY INTELLEGENT**

**VERY TALKATIVE BUT WE LOVE HER ANYWAY!**

**IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION CALL**

**259-1919**

**$$$REWARD$$$**

"Hell of a coincidence don't ya think?" Mahone said, biting into his dog and smearing relish across his lips.

"Yeah," Jake agreed. "Hell of a coincidence."

…

Jason leaned against the counter that separated the kitchen from the dining area of Tom and Jerry's Artistic Deli. The place could hardly be called a restaurant, the owners only turning it into one after Jerry had managed to convince Tom that there was more money in the sandwich making business rather than just selling quality sandwich meats to paying customers. The Deli was hardly a booming success, but it did well enough to get by, and by the midday rush the dozen or so tables and booths, the surfaces a shade of white that was as clean and refreshing as mint with scarlet trim around the edges, the chairs made of a dark sturdy wood with scarlet cushions (personally Jason thought the décor was a bit tacky, but he supposed it could be worse), would all be full. Well most of them anyway. In the corner was a jute box with the words 10 Cents written next to the coin slot, a black record spinning lazily underneath the needle of the player, the song Ramblin' Man by Frankie Laine drifting from the speakers. It worked most of the time.

Jason himself was just freshly out of his teens, had his black hair slicked backwards and held up with plenty of grease, a comb the back pocket of his jeans in case of emergencies, his eyes, which the girls at his old school use to call a dreamy brown as they whispered to each other while passing him in the hallway, unabashedly gazing at his morning coworker. Yes the Deli had a core group of die hard customers, and Jason suspected that this woman might be the very reason why.

"So Cor, when are you going to let me take you out? I mean it anyplace you want."

Cortana shook her head, but had trouble hiding a smile. She liked Jason despite his constant flirting, mostly because she knew it was harmless, the man flirting with nearly every single woman that came in. He was about the only person she was willing to tolerate it from. "How many times have you asked me out?"

Jason made a show of thinking, rubbing his chin in small circles with his index finger, "Well it's got to be at least a hundred."

"Well ask me a hundred more times and maybe my answer will be different. Until then you're out of luck."

Jason put his hand over his heart as if he had just been shot there, his face grimacing in emotional pain, "You wound me. And to think I was trying to do a bit of community service."

Cortana raised her eyebrow, her hips cocked. "Oh really?"

Jason nodded. "Can't let a woman as good looking as you be all alone on a Saturday night. It's criminal. It's an injustice, and by God," he pounded his fist lightly on the counter. "I will not rest until I see it corrected.

Cortana rolled her eyes and thought, _I don't think he has ever heard of concept of 'over selling it.' _"You do realize that my name is Mrs. Toren, not Ms. Toren."

"Actually I didn't. You've always just been Cor to me. As far as I knew you didn't have a last name." He shrugged dramatically, "Well what your old man doesn't know can't hurt him right?" At this Cortana chuckled openly and Jason smiled back at her, "What?"

Cortana shook her head, still trying to stifle the laughter. "Nothing, just that it's not him I'm worried about getting hurt."

Jason pointed at his own physique, patting a bicep, "Hey I could take him."

"Now that is something I would like to see." Turning away she gave a quick sweep of the restaurant with her eyes, frowning at the emptiness. She liked her job in the sense that she liked being with people, and being a waitress allowed her to be around them all day, the quiet atmosphere and often slow pace allowing her to strike up actual conversations easily and often. There were not many jobs available for women, at least not high paying ones, and even if she had decided to go for one of them she would still have been paid far less than a man would. Perhaps if she took a chance Cortana could do better than a dead end waitress job, and prior to becoming a mother she would have gladly taken some more risks, but now with a son to take care of and another child on the way what she valued most right now was security and stability, and that was what this job provided. It was far better, and ultimately safer for Cortana to just try and blend in with the society around her, as misogynist as it might be. To make it easier on herself Cortana thought of it as camouflage. It was survival in an alien time period, and Cortana had grown increasingly adept at it.

"Have you taken your thirty yet?" Cortana asked mildly.

"No why?"

"I think I am. Things are slow anyway," Cortana said, pushing herself away from the counter and heading towards the door.

Jason called after her as she exited the restaurant, "I'll hold down the fort." He leaned back against the counter, drumming his fingers on its surface, a wide smile forming as he saw a familiar middle aged woman walk in through the door. "Why hello there Mrs. Brisby. Looking beautiful as ever I see."

…

The walk from the Deli to the Turtle Bay Café was a short one, just a little over half a block, and it only took Cortana a few minutes to reach it even with the New York crowds. The building itself was made of red bricks, still a common feature in buildings during this time period, although that was quickly changing, had been changing ever since the first skyscraper was built, the enormous buildings seeming to defy gravity itself as they stabbed the sky with knives of steel and fingers of concrete and glass. The café itself was small, and only had one large window to the left of the door, a small board inside the store facing outwards advertising the place as having the best coffee in Manhattan, which put it in the same league as the dozens upon dozens of other coffee shops dotting the island city. Cortana had just placed her hand on the door handle to open it, and had it not been for a sudden gust of wind threating to pull up her skirt, she would have missed the penciled in graffiti written on the dried tan mortar between two of the bricks as she bent down in an effort to preserve modesty.

The more she stared at the words the more she had to halt the rising tide of panic that was settling in the instinctual part of her brain.

**SHE COMES HERE EVERYDAY FOR COFFEE**

There was no doubt in Cortana's mind as to what person the graffiti was referring to and she quickly straightened herself up, her mind working with the speed of quick silver as she began to dig into her purse. _You forgot your money_, she said to herself, repeating it as a mantra so as to make her acting appear more convincing. _You forgot your money and now you are going back to the Deli to go get it. You did not see the graffiti, you just forgot your money._ After thirty timed seconds of rummaging through her purse, her fingers brushing up against the very money in question several times, Cortana threw the purse back over her shoulder, walking with steady calmness back to the Deli. The hairs were standing up on the back of her neck. How long had those words been printed there? Why had she not seen them before? How long had she had people following her? _Stay calm. Go back to the restaurant. Call John and make sure Jack is okay. Try to contact Jake. Finish out your shift then go home, just like nothing has happened. We'll figure things out from there._ Even as she repeated these supposedly soothing words to herselfshe had to repress the desire to put a protective hand around her stomach. After several agonizing minutes, where every face appeared to be a potential threat, and every car a potential drive by, she saw the Deli in the distance, and she let herself relax.

Then a sharp finger jabbed into the side of her neck.

"Stop."

Cortana froze in mid step, her right foot dangling a half an inch above the sidewalk, her left one still firmly planted on the ground. Her eyes were the only they she could move, her very ability to speak stolen from her. They looked pleadingly at the throng of people surrounding her, but while many looked at her with concern, and even a few with contempt, non stopped to aid her.

Behind her Selena gave a crimson smile, "Hello Cortana. It's so nice to finally be able to meet you."


	26. Chapter 26: Passionate Intensity

Chapter 26: Passionate Intensity

Jack bounded down the apartment stairs, jumping the last four and landing neatly on his feet, two soda bottles with the trademark name Nozzala written in bold white letters surrounded by bright red. Jake would sometimes call this kind of soda Coke, although Jack could only guess as to why. There was no such thing as Coke, at least as far as he knew. Pepsi sure, but never Coke. Only Nozzala. The boy supposed that in the end it did not matter. As much as he looked up to Jake, he had to admit that his older cousin could be very weird sometimes, and it was on more than one occasion that Jack heard him singing songs that he had never heard before, not even on the radio, underneath his breath.

With one tremendous push on the black iron door that served as the entrance of the apartment building, and gave a person more of a sense that they were entering a prison rather than a place where people could make their homes, Jack rushed over to John who was sitting on the front steps waiting for him with a final burst of speed. "Got you one too," he said breathlessly, handing John one of the glass bottles.

John looked at the soda bottle warily, but took it anyway. However, when he went to twist the top off he found it would not budge. John applied a bit more pressure, and had just reached the point where he was afraid the bottle would break when Jack tapped him on the shoulder. Looking up, John saw his son produce a bottle opener, and with a quick flip of the wrist Jack popped the top off. "What's wrong? You never had soda before?"

"No," John answered truthfully. He took a small sip, the beverage tasting very much like he expected it too. _Did people in this time period think they would die if they did not have sugar?_

Jack shook his head and took a long gulp out of his own soda as he sat down next to John, finishing a quarter of it in one go. "You're weird." He began to pass the bottle between his hands thoughtfully. "You're weird, mom's weird, Jake's weird, I'm weird. Aunt Rose is the only one that is normal." Beside him John gave a grunt that almost sounded like laughter, and Jack smiled at him. He stretched his legs out on the steps and started banging his feet against them absentmindedly, his shoelaces flopping around in wide arcs. "You know a new movie came out." John did not say anything, but his head did perk up just enough for Jack to notice. He had grown use to the fact that John was not a talker, and it was only rarely that he said more than one sentence at a time, but he was a good listener and that mostly made up for it.

Mostly.

"It's a movie starring John Wayne called Hondo. It's about a gunslinger in the old west who winds up on some lady's ranch and has to fight off Indians and outlaws and stuff like that." He suddenly seemed to realize that he had been kicking his feet and forced himself to stop. "I was thinking that we could go see it."

John considered the proposal for a few moments, then nodded his head, "We can see if your mother wants to go tonight."

"No ummm," Jack began, becoming suddenly very interested in a crack in the concrete steps between his legs. "I was thinking that just you and me could go see it."

Jack chanced a hopeful look in John's direction only to find that the man was smiling at him. A pure genuine smile. None of his teeth were showing, but it was a smile all the same. "We can go."

"Neat," Jack said. He took another gulp from his soda, the last of the beverage swirling into a vortex as it made the final journey down the boy's throat, before speaking again. "You know I really like you. I hope that you…" Jack stopped as he turned to look at John, his expression changing from happiness, to concern, then for reasons he could not explain, fear followed closely by panic.

John's eyes were focused on a spot in the street somewhere to his left, the pupil's of his eyes turning as black and as deadly as hollow points. The Master Chief stood up, his own soda spilling from its position on the steps next to him, emptying the dark liquid onto the concrete which began to soak it up like a man in the desert dying of thirst. "Jack go inside."

Jack stood up as well, not knowing why he was afraid, but feeling the emotion all the same. "What…why?

"Now," John barked, and Jack jumped nearly two inches. John's command voice had the desired effect though and Jack quickly rushed inside, slamming the door behind him.

The Master Chief did not see them, at least not at first, but he smelled them. It was the smell of burning onions and garlic, of rotten meat, and it tasted like rusting metal. It was the smell of holes being torn into the fabric of reality, and his eyes darted across the street.

It was only for a moment that he saw it, the air shimmering as a back 1950 Buick appeared out of thin air, it's windows not exactly tinted but instead covered with a grey film that looked almost like mist, the sound of chimes covering up the sound of the motor as well as the throng of people and moving traffic, all of which were seemingly unaware that a car had just popped into being from the depths of nothingness. John's mouth filled with the taste of iron, his muscles tensing as the Buick rolled past the front of the apartment, then just as suddenly as it had appeared it vanished with little more than a shimmer of air that could easily be mistaken as a gust of wind.

Low men. The can-toi, the foot soldiers of the Crimson King, only now they had no king to serve. Now they served the lady in black.

The chimes subsided and John had just begun to relax when what felt like a brick collided with his psyche. Wincing from the pain John turned his attention to the southeast. _Cortana. _

He stepped backwards and wrapped his knuckles on the door, turning when he heard it open, Jack only peaking his head out and gripping the door tightly. "Jack, I want you to go up to Rosalita's apartment and stay there. Lock the door and do not go near any of the windows. Do not open the door for anyone unless it's me, your mother, or Jake. Do you understand?" Jack did not answer, instead giving his father a blank expression, and John repeated himself, "Do you understand?" While this time he said it more firmly, John did not raise his voice in the slightest. Still, Jack seemed to cower from the intensity of the tone, his eyes wide with unexplainable and bewildering fear. The single word just barely made it out, "Yes."

"Then go." John said, and Jack did not wait for further instructions, sprinting up the stairs as fast as his legs could carry him. John watched him until his son was finally out of sight, and underneath his breath, spoken in such a low voice that even I had trouble hearing it, he whispered, "I love you."

John turned around and faced the direction where he got the powerful psychic blast. He could not sense anything now, but his gut had told him that the worst had happened. He took a deep breath, and an eye blink later he was gone, nothing but kicked up dust left in his wake.

…

The crowd continued to push pass Cortana who was still frozen in place even after Selena had removed her finger from her neck. She continued to look pleadingly at them, but to no avail.

"They can't see me," Selena said, answering Cortana's unspoken question. "Oh but they can see you. They know you are in trouble, that you need help, but none of them are going to stop." She pressed herself against Cortana's back, whispering into her ear, "These are the people you have devoted your entire life to defending. It matters not what world, what time period you are in, they are all the same. The UNSC was wise to keep and John locked up in your ivory towers so that you would not learn the true nature of mankind. Oh, there is some good among them, but even their best lack all conviction. Perhaps if you had known the truth you would not have fought so hard to protect them." Selena placed a kiss on Cortana's neck, reveling in the other woman's scent. "Their punishment will come soon, but not today. Today it is your turn."

The goddess motioned with her head to ten story building still under construction on the opposite side of the street, the work to build it all but finished. "There. That is where we will palaver." Cortana's legs began to move again, guiding her across the street, and she winced as several cars stopped dead in order to avoid hitting her, the drivers honking their horns.

The interior of the building was one immense space, steel beams still showing, little more than a structure of concrete and metal rather than the office space it was destined to become. Once inside Selena twirled her finger and Cortana spun around to face her, the goddess' eyes wandering lustfully up and down her body, and Cortana could feel the fingers of Selena's gaze across her skin. Selena took a step forward and reached up Cortana's blouse, her hand wandering upwards until it cupped one breast. "You are beautiful," she said, although coming from her it was far from a compliment. "I can almost understand why John resisted me." Selena's fingers began to work, and Cortana felt her body respond without her consent.

The goddess looked over her shoulder for a brief moment, her blood red lips curving into the shape of a crescent moon. "John knows something is wrong. You two are ka-tet and an-tet, you're fates as closely interwoven together as two people can be, but so long as you are with me he won't be able to sense you. He will have to find you the old fashion way." Selena's hand drifted downward and slipped between Cortana's thighs, feeling the warmth in between them. "Which means we will have plenty of time together." The goddess leaned in close, her lips almost touching Cortana's, her crimson eyes digging into Cortana's blue ones. "Do you know how long I have thought about how I would get my revenge on you?" She pressed her lips softly against Cortana's, speaking again when she withdrew them. "Killing you would have been far too easy, far too quick, and there was always the chance, small as it might be, that you may come back again. No, I would rather you live with the pain I inflict." She kissed her again, this time more deeply, and as much as Cortana attempted to resist her mouth refused to listen. It opened up and Selena's tongue slipped inside. It slithered in, making small circles as it did, dancing with Cortana's own tongue as they battled each other for dominance, and then withdrew.

Cortana felt the need to spit, to wipe her mouth, but was instead had to endure the forced arousal Selena was bringing about , foreign and alien thoughts that were not her own wondering what it would be like to have Selena's tongue on other parts of her body. Selena licked her lips, "I tried to seduce John, though I must admit that was as much for my own personal pleasure as it was for getting revenge. He resisted successfully, but not before I was able to place my backup plan into motion." Her hand left the depths of Cortana's inner thighs and moved to her stomach, "Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, claw for claw." At these words Cortana began to struggle with every fiber of her being, but all it amounted to was a few tremors in her hands. Selena looked at Cortana's stomach thoughtfully, "I could not kill Jack. He is far too important for our plans. I could have waited for you to give birth, but John would have been gone by then, and besides I want you to feel what I felt when you killed my poor Walter. To feel your child's pain as I felt his, and a mother and child are the closest when the baby is still in the womb." She tilted her head slightly as her long fingernails scratched the surface of Cortana's belly, "I was a bit surprised at how soon John gave in and came to see you, although I suppose much of that was Diana's doing. If it had not been for our mutual friend Pat, I might not have known he was here at all."

With a sudden thrust Selena's hand dived into Cortana's stomach as if the surface of her skin was nothing but water, and Cortana felt the goddess' fingers encircle her womb. Selena's red eyes widened, "It's a girl. You wanted John to pick the name. Kelly right?" She gave a shrug of her shoulders, "Or at least that would have been her name." Selena twitched one of the fingers that remained outside of Cortana's body, expecting what was to come and wanting to savor it, and Cortana did not disappoint.

"Please," she begged, would have gotten down on her knees if she had been able to. Would have done anything to protect her unborn daughter. "You can do whatever you want with me. I'll surrender myself as soon as she is born. I'm the one that killed Walter. I'm the one you need to punish."

"I am," Selena replied.

"Please," Cortana said, out of arguments, out of logic, out of everything except for the pained pleading look in her eyes and the hot tears down her cheeks. "Please don't do this."

Selena's hand withdrew slightly, and Cortana was desperate enough to seize on that single ray of hope, but that hope died as Selena's fangs flashed in a brilliant smile.

"No."

Her hand clenched into a fist and Cortana was overcome with molten hot pain searing through her abdomen.

The life held within her womb was extinguished.


	27. Chapter 27: The Blood Dimmed Tide

Chapter 27: The Blood Dimmed Tide

Jack paced in the apartment. All he could do was pace, every instinct in him saying that he needed to move, to do something, even if he did not know what that something was. But he had been told to stay put, to be caged inside of this small space with the windows and door locked with Aunt Rose, who was currently sitting at the table, rosary in hand, the beads slipping through her fingers as she said each fervent prayer. He would listen to what John had said, but not without some internal protest. Jack hated orders, loathed rules, and only obeyed the ones that he saw sense behind, perhaps too clever for his own good to know that he could get away with most of his transgressions, especially since his mother and Jake had vastly different parenting styles. Cortana was the type of person who would keep Jack away from a pond because he could not swim, while Jake would throw him head first into it so that he could learn how.

He continued his circular march, briefly visualizing himself wearing a hole into the floor like one of the characters in the cartoons that ran before the movie in the theatres, until a small and petite gust of wind kissed his cheek. He turned and saw the window in the living room wide open, the curtains fluttering in the light breeze. Jack had closed the window himself, but here it stood open to the world beyond it. He moved to close the window, but was stopped at what he saw on the street below him. From the angle he was at Jack could not see it clearly, so he stuck his neck out the window and peered downwards, and instantly recognized what he saw.

It was a little girl, perhaps a few years older than him, skipping down the alley in a yellow sundress, her hair a striking brown, and her movements swift and graceful. She looked no different than anyone else Jack could see, but he could sense she was different, could sense it with all of her kind. She was one of what Jake called the vagrant dead, those that were either unable or unwilling to go into the clearing at the end of the path. He could sense it like a scent or even a light vibration which was just strong enough for him to detect. Jack found himself mesmerized by her, vaguely being able to hear that the little girl was singing a song, although he was too far away to make out the words. Even though he could not see her face, Jack found her beautiful. He had never had a crush before, and upon further reflection on this particular moment and time decided that he had not felt it then, but he have an overwhelming sense of protectiveness when he saw her. The little brown haired girl stopped, and slowly her head turned to look up at him, and when Jack saw her eyes his sense of inner peace was exchanged for alarm.

Her light blue eyes were the same as his own. The exact same, full of life and curiosity, rather than the well of pent up memories and internal refection that he saw in Jake and John's. But what alarmed him the most was that she looked like his mother.

"Jack, get away from the window," Rosalita said, not shouting but instead giving a harsh whisper.

Jack pulled away from the window, a bit reluctantly, but froze when a sharp knock came from the door. Rosalita stood up, holding a finger for Jake to be silent, listening intently as another rap was made on the door.

Rosalita felt a burst of heat attack her skin as the door was blown off of its hinges, her body pelted with splinters of wood, and it was through squinted eyes that she saw the barrel of a plasma rifle pointed not at her, but at Jack.

Though she might have said it, Rosalita never did regret being there when Jack was born. Her and Harvey had talked about having children, and had tried their best to make it happen before he went to fight with the Big Red One, but on the day he left she was still not pregnant, and when the letter came a part of her knew that she would never have her own children.

She had spent perhaps more time with Jack in his early years than even Cortana and Jake, taking care of him as Cortana struggled to provide a home for him. She had fed him bottles, changed his diapers, and mumbled curses under her breath at the messes he would make. Rosalita had been there when he first learned how to walk, when he spoke his first word, and taken him to see his first movie, had helped to take care of him when he was sick, had read stories to him in order to coax him into to taking his afternoon nap which he had always resisted. From the start she had known that Jack was not normal, the child displaying extraordinary intelligence and awareness of the world around him at an age when most children were still babbling nonsense. But she regretted none of it, even now as the last few second of her life ticked away. He was the son that she had never been given, and it was with some solemnness that Rosalita realized that she would be the only one that knew exactly how much she loved him, and so there was no thought, no decision made as she ran to Jack, shielding his body with her own, her arms wrapped tightly around him.

The last thing she heard was the whine of the plasma bolts as they rushed towards her.

…

Selena's eyes were closed as the euphoria rushed throughout her immortal body. "You have no idea how good it felt to do that," she said, smirking at Cortana whose face was contorted in pain. "And now to make sure you won't be spawning any more brats." Her fist flew open inside Cortana's womb and a fresh wave of pain hit her.

It was like someone was taking a baseball bat and hitting her repeatedly in the stomach, hard enough to bruise, hard enough for Cortana to cough up blood, hard enough to destroy every reproductive organ within her. With one last savage swing, the invisible and intangible bat thrust upward at her womanhood, and Cortana felt blood begin to run down her legs, dripping at the knee and forming a small puddle on the concrete floor.

Selena let Cortana scream, the yells of pain like a soft lullaby to her, and the goddess withdrew her hand from the woman's belly and softly caressed her cheeks, shushing her soothingly. When the pain finally subsided, Selena kissed Cortana's wet cheeks. "I would tell you that it is almost over, but we both know that it is not." She toyed with Cortana's hair, momentarily deep in thought, "In some worlds I have been called Aphrodite Pandemos, Astarte, and Ishtar, but you have figured out that much already haven't you?" It was a rhetorical question, and Selena did not bother to wait for a reply. "But that's not what you want to know. What you want to know is what I am, not who I am. And so I'll tell you."

"I am the lady of the black"

"I am the daughter of the moon."

"The daughter of sleep."

"I am the mother of the demon Legion."

"I am a god of death."

"I am a god of lust."

"I am the arbiter of war and decay."

"I am the tempter of men's souls."

"I am a servant of Maerlyn."

"I am the Crimson Queen."

"And what I demand, above all else, is sacrifice."

She placed a gentle hand on Cortana's stomach, "And that is what you have provided me."

Selena leaned back from Cortana, her crescent smile never wavering. "But there is one more aspect of your punishment I have yet to give you. The most terrible gift imaginable, one that is enough to drive men insane. I give you hope, hope that you can change Jack's ka, to divert him from the path he is destined to travel down." She held up three slender fingers, "There is a prophecy of the Three Futile Battles. Reach and Jericho Hill were two, and your son will be involved in the third, and his struggle will be the most futile of them all. The battle will destroy him, will bring him closer to our side. It is from the aftermath of his hopeless fight that Maerlyn will return, and your son in his own desperation will be the one to bring him back." She let her hand drop, clasping it behind her back. "And just like what you did to Walter when you killed him, your son too shall burn."

Selena then looked over her shoulder, her smile blooming into a full moon as she sensed the presence of another, "He's here."

The goddess vanished, and Cortana dropped to the floor, chocking as she coughed the blood out of her throat. She did not have long to recover, though, as what sounded and felt like artillery blasts rammed into the building, shaking the floor beneath her as if it were an earthquake.

Concrete dust fell on top of Cortana's raven hair, and she struggled to get back to her feet, eyes searching through the thunderous roar for any hint of John, finding none. There was a flash of movement, and Cortana attempted to focus on it, but it vanished as soon as it came.

(Have you forgotten everything I taught you?)

Roland's voice entered her mind, but if it was just her imagining him there with her, or if it came out of the vastness of Spiritus Mundi she did not know, nor would she ever know.

(Aim with your eye)

And Cortana did, reciting her lessons in her head even as her knees gave way and she was forced back on all fours underneath the oppression of the incoming rounds, mortar blasts filling the air with a fine dust. _Aim with the eye, shoot with the mind, kill with the heart. _

Her eyes were closed when she thought those words, and when she opened them the mystery behind the murderous thunder of the canons was revealed.

John and Selena threw themselves at each other with reckless abandon, the Master Chief clad in his MJOLNIR, each blow followed swiftly by another, blocking and dodging with perfect fluidity, Selena matching his speed and strength with each and every blow, meeting force with force. Both too strong to be defeated, and both too weak to gain the victory.

John managed to grab Selena around the torso and slammed her into the ground, moving on top of her with his knee firmly planted in her back, and grabbed her head with both hands. With unprecedented and unrivaled savagery John slammed Selena's head repeatedly into the concrete, kicking up more grey dust, the building itself shaking to it's very foundations as he did. Selena flipped herself onto her back and brought a knee up into John's groin, and the Master Chief responded by plunging both thumbs into her eye sockets, dark pools of blood spilling down her face. The goddess reached up and twisted John's neck, a loud crack sounding as it broke.

John rolled off of her, and continued to roll, his shattered bones knitting themselves back together as he did, and his neck was fully healed by the time he stood back up. Selena stood up as well, her popped eyes falling from her sockets, new sultry ones growing where the old ones had been planted. There was no perceivable pause as they went at each other again, fists and knees and legs flying in one tangled blur. After dozens of blocked blows John found an opening and slammed his fist into Selena's gut. He impaled her on his arm, his fist existing the goddess' back covered in blood. Selena grabbed the upper part of John's arm and pulled herself further into the embrace. She placed both hands in front of his orange visor, crimson flames erupting from them, propelling John backwards. White light surrounded him as he threw up his arms in front of him, forming an 'x', watching as Selena's abdominal wound healed itself.

Looking over he saw Cortana still kneeling, her legs soaked with blood, and more specks of scarlet on her blouse, and a fresh wave of rage unlike he had ever felt before washed through him. "Get out!" he shouted over the unstoppable roar.

He did, could not wait to see if Cortana had fled, every bit of his cognitive function dedicated to stopping Selena. Through the flames, dark wings unfurled, Selena flew at him, and John sidestepped just into time to avoid her. He placed his own hands around her head, and returned the favor she had given him before, breaking her neck and twisting it until her head was facing backwards. He lifted her body up in the air and brought her back down on his knee, shattering her spine. With one last mental nudge a portal broke open in front of him, and John dug his heels into the concrete to prevent himself from being sucked through. With a heave he tossed Selena's broken, but still very much alive body through back into Todash Space.

He closed it as soon as he could, feeling in his mind the demons rushing towards the portals entrance, the rupture collapsing just before they could come through.

The building continued to shake, cinderblocks and steel beams falling around him, and John crouched into a ball as the partially constructed skyscraper collapsed.

…

Cortana was just one of hundreds of people running in the streets, her weakened legs carrying her as far and as fast as she could go. The thirty story building behind her was collapsing into its own footprint, and now a cloud of dust was rampaging through the city like a wounded beast, devouring all those that were not fast enough to escape it, and none were. Cortana tripped as her legs finally yelled at her to stop, shouting that they could not go any farther, and she crouched into a ball as the dust cloud swirled around her, coughing for air as it did.

She blinked her eyes, her body covered with dust, her form now a pure white. She saw movement in the hanging cloud, other white bodies moving around aimlessly, the people still shocked and benumbed at what had just happened. There was another explosion, and all around her people ducked, diving under cars or covering their head with their hands. Moments later she found herself wrapped in a protective embrace.

"Cortana."

John breathed her name, holding her tighter as he did, his body now shed of the armor which had encased him, and it was the only time Cortana could recall that she heard fear in his voice.

Cortana leaned against him, or perhaps fell, John doing most of the work to support her weight. She pressed her head into his chest, "John." Cortana shook her head, "I lost it. I lost her."

_Her, _John thought his eyes moving to her stomach. He placed a hand over it, and Cortana tried to push it away, realizing what he was doing.

"John."

He continued to try, cuts and bruises mending as he did, and Cortana felt warmth grow in her stomach, but not the warmth of life. His hand drifted away after several minutes of effort, and his eyes…

He could not describe what was happening to them, but something was happening, a pressure building on them that needed release.

There was the screech of rubber on asphalt as a black and white police patrol car pulled up, Jake stepping out before the vehicle had even stopped. Cortana and John were the first ones he noticed, and as Mahone spoke into the radio he rushed towards them, eyes catching the dried up blood covering Cortana.

Just as before another brick hit John's mind. "Distraction," he said, and Cortana looked up at him. "It was a distraction." He turned to Jake, "Help her." Jake through and arm over his shoulder and supported Cortana as John left, giving no hint to where he was going, but Cortana and Jake could guess.

Cortana did her best to manage her panic, but it did little good, and she imagined Selena laughing at her as she realized that the only thing she had left was hope.


	28. Chapter 28: The Ceremony of Innocence

Chapter 28: The Ceremony of Innocence is Drowned

The low man stumbled down the stairs, his feet tripping him as he went, and it was only because of his firm grip on both the railing and a hand on the wall opposite was he able to keep from falling over. The pain in his side was immense, his trench coat soaked with scarlet blood, his lungs aching, and he was almost positive that at least one of them had been punctured by one of his fractured ribs. Still he moved, he had to move, had to get as far away as he could from that thing, from that beast.

It was suppose to be a simple mission, a hit, an assassination, something that he had done many times before. North Central preferred to work in the shadows, to be the puppeteers, to influence rather than force. Open warfare was bad for business, often revealing to those who would oppose them their true objectives, but sometimes it was necessary, but even then the Red preferred to use other third party agents that had fallen under their influence to fulfill their goals. Sometimes, though, direct action needed to be taken. Sometimes a few hands needed to get dirty, and that was why low men like him existed, and if the intended mark was a child? So be it.

_But it wasn't a kid_, the low man reminded himself as he made it down another flight. _No kid. No kid. It was a demon. A demon straight from Todash Space._ He stumbled as he descended another flight of stairs, and his side hit the wall with enough force to suffocate all thought from his mind. In agony he continued to move forward, blood smearing on the wall as he did. As he turned the corner, eyes bleary from pain, he ran into a wall of hardened muscle.

The low man felt himself being spun around, his head lifted upward so that he could see the stairs that he had just traveled down, and felt the cold steel of a knife slicing through his throat, blood spraying onto the steps.

John tossed the low man's body down the stairs without further thought, continuing his tireless assent upwards. The knife in his hand disintegrated into ash and John closed his bare fist, moving like blur up the spiral, eyes searching for more enemies, finding none.

When he reached Rosalita's apartment he did not allow his heart to sink when he saw that the door had been blown down, instead preparing himself for what he would find inside, and also refusing to imagine that he might find the worst possible scenario.

Red.

That was the color of the apartment, the color that invaded his sense of sight, that painted the walls and floors and ceiling with its unique grotesqueness. To say that there was a river of blood in the apartment would have been an understatement, as would it be to say that it was an ocean of blood. No, it was a flood, a flood of blood to rival the days of Noah and the Ark, and there was not a single place where John could put his feet where he would not step in it.

Before he could begin to register, for his eyes to interpret what he was seeing, chimes filled his ears, and out of instinct rather than practicality John grasped the doorframe. The room began to spin, elongating into a tunnel, a widening vortex that all men must be sucked through. Lining the perimeter of the vortex were twelve wooden wheels, each with twenty-eight spokes. They were spinning uncontrollably, but even with their blinding revolutions John could still somehow make out the sigul on each one. Stamped on the side of each wooden wheel was a circle, and in the circle was a single word.

**KA**

_No, _John realized as he continued to look at them. It was the only thing he could do until this particular vision ended, already having long overstayed its welcome. _Only eleven of them. _

It was true, only eleven wheels had the word ka on them. On the twelfth one were four images, and a single word. On that wheel was the image of a lion roaring his superiority, a crown on top of his head; a white horse, sword and bow strapped to his saddle, an eagle with its wings unfurled like a mighty banner, arrows in one claw and an olive branch in the other; and lastly a single red rose, its center that of a dying sun. The word that was stamped upon this wheel was…

**GYRE**

The vortex and the wheels vanished, replaced by a slate of pure black, and from the darkness John once again heard the voice of the old prophet in mid-world.

(And now I know that twenty centuries of stony sleep were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle)

On the end of the prophets words came Selena's laughter, no longer the sultry and seductive voice that he was use to hearing from her, but rather that of an old crone. She spoke to him.

(Endless war, John. Endless war. Your greatest enemy, with lion's body and the head of a man)

The sense of spinning gradually ebbed, and the color of blood washed away the blackness, bring John firmly back onto the shoddy foundation of reality. He filed the vision away into his memory. Whatever it was trying to tell him could wait, could not possibly be more important than what he was seeing right now, and what he saw was pure carnage.

A low man had been thrown against the stove, the metal bending at the force of the impact. His rib cage had been torn open, both sets of ribs opening up like a pair of butterfly wings to reveal the chest cavity inside. There, what was left of the heart was clearly visible, along with the lungs which had been torn into nothing but bloodied mush. The low man was missing his eyes, blood pouring from their sockets, his tongue swollen and hanging limply out of his mouth. The second low man had no head, and as hard as John looked he could not find it, not even so much as skull fragments or brain matter, the neck nothing more than a bleeding stump, blood still trickling from the open veins and arteries. The third, well there was no third body, but John saw enough traces of what use to be organs, intestines caught in the blades of the spinning overhead fan, and as it made a revolution the organ sprayed small speckles of blood onto John's face. There were fingers here and there, a few items of chard clothing, an eyeball staring upwards at the ceiling, and a boot still containing the severed foot, all enough to tell John that there had indeed been a third low man in the room.

It was the fourth body that sent John into a panic, a feeling foreign enough to him that he at first had trouble identifying what it was. Rosalita laid crumpled by the open window, the curtains swaying gently in the warm summer breeze, plasma burns running down her back, her body devoid of all life.

"Jack!" John shouted into the apartment, turning around wildly. He sloshed through the pools of blood as he entered the room, moving towards the hallway, looking for any trace of his son. "Jack!"

"Mommy." The voice was soft, tiny, and John twirled around to the bathroom where it was coming from.

He opened the door and searched the room, his heart beating faster when he saw no sign of Jack. The tiny voice repeated itself. "I want my mommy."

John looked down. Laying beside the bathtub curled into a ball, hugging his knees to his chest, was Jack. He was drenched in blood, the dark liquid covering him from head to toe, his jet black hair wet with it, and the only part of his face that was not covered in red were the lines underneath his eyes where the tears had washed it away. He was trembling as if he had a fever, rocking slightly, and when John knelt down and put an hand on his shoulder Jack jumped, realizing John was there for the first time.

His son jumped into his arms, embracing John tightly, beginning to sob uncontrollably. "I'm sorry." He said, and continued to repeat himself. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"It's okay," John said, holding Jack with one arm, feeling like he needed to say something more than that but not knowing what.

Jack shook his head, "Aunt Rose…" The crying choked away his words, and it was several long minutes before he could speak again. "I tried to save her. I tried, I tried everything. She wouldn't wake up. I'm sorry."

"It's alright," John said, holding him tighter. "I'm here."

Jack's sobbing stopped, and he fell limp in John's arms, his breathing slowed, and when John pulled him away to see what had happened he saw that Jack had passed out, his red soaked eyelids closed.

The same unfamiliar feeling as before began to build up in John's eyes, and he blinked back the mounting pressure. Gently he picked Jack up, cradling him in both arms, and carried him out of the apartment.

…

_Jack woke up, only he was not sure who he was. Was not sure of anything, his consciousness completely wiped clean of any and all memory. All that he knew was that his name was Jack, or was it Arthur? Somehow both seemed to be true, although he did not know how or why. He remembered one other thing, that of a young girl, younger than him, in a yellow sundress who looked achingly familiar to him with long brown hair and eyes that were the same as his own. _

_ Jack stood up, finding himself surrounded by an abyss. It was not exactly black, not exactly anything, more like the nothing color of faded work jeans or perhaps the color of rain. A match was struck, Jack being able to hear it within the dense silence, and he turned around. There was an old man standing behind him, his beard as white as snow and hanging down below his chest, his face full of dark wrinkles, his eyebrows heavy, his forehead densely populated by deep creases, his body gaunt. He wore a thick grey cloak, the hood of which covered up most of his face although his grey eyes were still visible, and he carried a staff with a lantern hand by a chain on the end of it. The old man opened the door on the lantern, and used the match to light it, all the while never taking his ancient eyes off of Jack. _

_ "Who are you?" Jack asked, but the old man did not respond. Instead he lifted the lantern high above his head, illuminated the nothingness around them, and with one wrinkled hand point at a spot directly behind Jack. _

_ Jack whirled around, suddenly confronted with a blue orb marbled with white. As he looked closer though Jack discovered that it was not an orb, but a planet. It was Earth, rotating peacefully on its axis. More light shined down from above, and Jack looked up, stepping back as he discovered that there were thousands of Earths, some of them with their continents in different configurations, some with continents that did not exist, and one that he could see with a large portion of Africa burned until it looked almost like the surface had been turned to glass. They were connected together by a spiraling web, stacked on top of each other in a great pylon, forming a Tower of infinite height. Jack took several more steps back, intimidated, but stopped when he felt the old man place a hand on his shoulder. The old man leaned forward and whispered a single word to him. _

_ "Conquer." _

**A/N: Some of you may have noticed that I changed the cover for this story. The figure pictured in the cover is Selena, in case any of you were wondering what she really looks like**


	29. Chapter 29: Subject 117

Chapter 29: Subject 117

The panic did not settle itself into the core of Cortana's emotions instantly.

It was insidious in its invasion, calmly cancelling out all rational thought in an orderly manner from the moment that John left her in Jake's care. Jake had given her a ride, taking the police car without Mahone's knowledge or consent, although in the coming days this particular transgression would matter very little; it would be buried in the wave of violence that was to come. Rosalita's murder too would be buried, the collapse of a partially constructed thirty story skyscraper taking over much of the headlines before it too would be swept away, although unknown to the ka-tet, until it was far too late, that was not the only reason.

She did not notice the panic's steady advance until she arrived at the apartment complex, and it had fully set in when she was denied access to the building by men in black suits claiming to be from the FBI told her that the complex was sealed off due to a murder investigation. Jake stood by her the whole time, although she would not allow herself to be comforted by him, could not allow that until she knew for sure that Jack was okay, and it did not help that the men in black refused to give her any information.

So Cortana waited, pacing back in forth in futility, stealing glances upwards where Rosalita's apartment was located, and then up at her own. The sun had not yet set, was just in the middle of its inevitable descend down into the deepest pits of heaven, but still she could just make out the light shining through the window, standing in sharp contrast to the darkness that came out of the window of her apartment. Rosalita was dead. She felt it, rather than knew it. With effort, she pushed back the wetness in her eyes. Cortana refused to cry, not now, and - if she could help it - not ever.

She waited.

Long she waited, and longer still.

…

Hands that could be made of steel, of concrete, and granite - hands that had been honed into sharp weapons of war - hands that could easily kill a man with a single blow if the necessity arose. It was with those hands that John gently tucked his still unconscious son into bed. He had covered their tracks as best he could from the blood-drenched apartment, had washed all of the blood off Jack in the small bathroom, all the while that strange sensation afflicting his eyes. John placed Jack's drenched clothes in a plastic garbage bag, a recent invention. He would burn them later.

He, like Cortana, waited. He waited for a knock on the door, could hear the sirens outside of the building, and the men in black walking along the floor below him. The knock never came, and as the dying afternoon sun gave way to the night, the stars made dimmed by New York's city lights, he waited for the others to come home.

The front door opened, and John recognized who it was by the unique sound of her footsteps, Cortana half running to the bedroom. Her clothes had been changed - Jake's doing John supposed - wearing NYPD physical training gear that was far too baggy on her. She paused in the doorway, letting out a sigh of relief when she saw Jack sleeping in the bed and John sitting on the one opposite, and then rushed towards Jack, falling on her knees beside him. She kissed his forehead, then his cheek, before wrapping him in her arms.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

John shook his head, but said nothing, Cortana not seeing the gesture.

She ran her hands through Jack's hair for several minutes before she spoke again, "How many?"

"Four," John replied. "I only killed one of them."

Cortana's hand stopped mid stroke, "You let them go?"

"No," John said. "They were already dead."

Cortana swallowed hard, resuming her strokes through her son's hair, "How long has he been unconscious?"

"Hours."

Cortana nodded, "He might not remember anything that happened when he wakes up. Sometimes the mind, when put under an extraordinary amount of stress, suppresses memories. It's a survival mechanism."

John hoped she was right. The way Jack had been sobbing, realizing what he had done, how he had lost control, how he had still not been able to save Rosalita; he did not want his son to remember any of that.

"Cortana," he began. "The baby."

"She's gone John." Cortana's voice was shaking, but she managed to hold herself together, just barely.

"You can't be certain. We can take you to a hospital, find out for sure…"

"John," the shaking was becoming worse now. "I felt it. I felt everything. I felt her die inside of me. She's gone."

The strange sensation in his eyes reached its peak, and John's vision blurred. He blinked, and then wiped one of his eyes with a finger to try and correct the problem, and when he pulled his hand away he saw moisture.

Cortana turned around just in time to see it. _He's…_ She could not finish the thought, could not complete the word. _He's never, not once._ Cortana went to him, putting her head into his chest as she sat on his lap. "I don't blame you."

"I know," John said, his eyes a dangerous shade of red.

"No," Cortana said, wrapping her arms around him tightly. "No you don't."

John felt a warm spot on his cheek, and again wiped it away, pulling Cortana as close to him as he could.

…

Agent Smith walked around the apartment, rubber coverings on both of his shoes so as to avoid getting blood on him, leather gloves on both hands. Around him other men in black suits, some still wearing their sunglasses even while they were indoors, performed their duties. Taking notes, snapping pictures, plotting out possible trajectories based off the plasma burns on the wall. He did not know that was what they were, but he did know that what killed the woman who lived in this apartment was not human made. If it had not been for his particular abilities, and the fact that he was already in New York tracking down whatever creature had landed in Albany over a month ago, he would never have made it to the scene in time to close it off from the NYPD. And thank god for that. He had pulled one of the masks made of flesh off of the creature who had his chest opened up and his heart crushed. What he saw underneath of it nearly made him cringe. He would send the specimen back to Nevada, to see if Fred could identify it, along with the weapons that they had recovered.

Now he squatted down next to the woman, her back charred to a crisp black, much of her hair singed by a plasma bolt that had splattered against the back of her head, and beside him Agent Williams, his features just as bland and generic as Smith's, flipped through a file.

"Rosalita Patricia Mendez. Spanish decent, parents immigrated here in 1920. Married Harvey Richard Mendez, half English half Spanish. He immigrated to the country in 1937 when he was eighteen. Parents died when she was young, no listed relatives in the country. Has her next of kin identified as…" he stopped, going over the words again to make sure he read it right. "Cortana Miranda Toren." He closed the file and looked down at Smith. "That's Subject 117's mother."

Smith merely nodded, his features grim. "I doubt it's a coincidence."

"Should we make contact?"

Smith thought for several seconds, eyes tracing the lethal wounds on Rosalita's back, "No. We maintain our distance. I have a feeling that the experiment was a success, whatever North Central was trying to prove."

Agent Williams surveyed the carnage around him, "You really think these things were working for North Central?"

Smith nodded, "I'm sure of it." He stood up and dug his sunglasses out of his pocket, putting them on, the overhead light reflecting off of the black lenses. "Williams, what I'm about to say never leaves this room. Do you understand?" Williams nodded, and Smith continued, "I believe that our affiliation with North Central is becoming more trouble than what it's worth." He looked around at the floor. There were no tracks, no footprints. There should be the touch allowing him to sense that two other people had been in the room. To cover up tracks made in blood would not have required the skills of an expert, it would have required the miracle of divine intervention. "Whatever North Central was trying to accomplish here, I have a feeling that all they really did was awaken a sleeping giant, and fill it with rage."

…

The room was pitch black before Jake turned on the lights, his head bent slightly forward due to weariness, his uniform sporting a ring of sweat around the collar. John squinted when the lamp beside him flickered to life, looking like a man who had moved very little over the course of several long hours. The mattress sagged under his weight, his back bent forward with his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes fixed on the two people lying on the other bed. Cortana was sound asleep, her breathing steady, an arm wrapped protectively around a still unconscious Jack.

Jake came and sat beside John, pulling his revolver out of the holster and checking each chamber, critically inspecting every bullet. The ritual comforted him in some small way, made him feel like he would always be ready. "We're going to have to kill a whole lot of people," he said, John nodding in agreement. Jake put the revolver back in its holster, feeling the weight of it on his hip.

A mutual understanding passed between both men, though neither voiced it. They were about to go to war, but this time there was no object, nothing to accomplish, no quest to fulfill. This time their only goal would be to kill as many of enemy as possible, as many as it took to make a point. It would be done even though the Red had no intention of killing Cortana, had no intention of killing Jack, their attempted assassination merely a test of his abilities. They would fill up Grand Central with bodies, would turn New York into a war zone, all because something like this, what had been done to them, could not go unanswered. _Sometimes revenge is the answer, _Jake thought. _Sometimes revenge and justice are one and the same. _

"You know the first year we came here I never slept," Jake said. John did not say anything, did not even tilt his head to let Jake know he was listening, but Jake did not expect him too. In some ways he did not care if John was listening or not, he just needed to talk.

"Part of the reason was because of the nightmares. Cortana use to have them too, still has them now and again, but I'm sure you already know that. One time was really bad. She woke up screaming, and it was everything I could do to make her calm down. I was afraid she was going to wake up Jack, but he just kept on sleeping. He can sleep like a rock when he wants to. She never did tell me what the nightmare was about, and I never asked, mostly because I could already take a few guesses.

"The real reason though was because I was afraid. Afraid of what might happen if I let my guard down, if I did not watch over them, protect them. That's what you told me to do, to take care of them, but that was not the only reason. The moment I saw Jack in the delivery room, the first time I held him, I knew. I knew what he was to me, and what I was to him. So for the first year I stood watch every night. I slept only a few hours every now and then, but even that was rare." He made a small smile without realizing it as Cortana dug her head deeper into the pillow next to Jack.

"I use to love watching them sleep. It made me feel," he stopped for a few seconds, trying to come up with an adequate way to describe what he felt. "It was like when I first came to mid-world, when me and Roland were chasing the man in black across the desert towards the mountains. It was like when I first met Eddie and Susannah, when I first saw the Rose, when we left the Emerald City in Oz, when we first met you two in the forest, when I first met Callahan, when we stayed in the Calla, those times when it seemed like anything was possible. That's what it felt like. Waiting for them to wake up made me feel like anything could happen next. Like everyday could be better than the last, that there was a new adventure just waiting to happen."

His smile dimmed, but it did not quite leave either, clinging desperately on to life. "When do we get started?"

"Dawn," John replied. "We'll send a message."

**A/N: If any of you have not seen the video with the deleted dialogue from the Midnight Cutscene you should go check it out. Many thanks to scaryrobots for bringing it to my attention. **


	30. Chapter 30: Vendetta Part I (Wars)

Chapter 30: Vendetta Part I (Wars)

_Hear me boys, and heed now my advice_

_To America don't you be coming_

_For there is nothing here but war_

_And the thundering cannons' roar_

_And I wish I was back home in dear old Dublin_

_Paddy's Lamentation_

_Author Unknown _

…

(A King and his men)

(Few against many)

(A Ridge covered in fire)

(Blood in rivers)

(Cannot retreat)

(Cannot surrender)

(Cannot defend)

(We'll have the advantage of moving downhill)

(Believe)

(Follow Me)

…

Cortana blinked, trying to banish the bout of dizziness that had momentarily overcome her, as well as the words that had followed. They were words, seen rather than heard, scrolling across the lens of her internal eye.

(Believe)

(Believe)

(Believe)

_Go away, _she silently pleaded, and the scrolling text stopped its tireless march from right to left. Other than her sleeping son she was the only one in the bedroom, the sky outside a tinge of bright pink as the sun awoke from its nightly slumber.

She had a notion about what the words were saying, had been seeing them ever since Selena had told her the prophecy. They were not as prominent now as they had once been, the red letters shouting at her with intense brightness. Sleeping had helped, she supposed, and now the words came only intermittently, and Cortana hoped that eventually go away.

Hope.

That was Selena's ultimate sentence, to twist something that Cortana had come to value so highly into a lifelong punishment. To hope to change something that was inevitable, to try and defy ka itself, to hope so fervently that it would eventually drive her mad. Cortana was very familiar with insanity, and it was not a place she was eager to visit again.

_The Three Futile Battles_, she thought. _Reach, Jericho Hill, and…_

(A Ridge covered in fire)

_Stop, _Cortana demanded, the text once again halting. She continued to think. There was a literary equivalent to what Selena had told her, and Cortana was not surprised by that. The Three Futile Battles of Britain were part of the Welsh Triads, and included The Battle of the Trees, The Battle of Arfderydd, and most famously The Battle of Camlann.

Cortana's eyes dropped, staring down at the floor below her.

The Battle of Camlann, the final confrontation between King Arthur and Mordred.

There was a groan and Cortana looked up, Jack's eyes slowly opening, a hand going up to rub away the blurriness. "Morning sweetheart," she said, getting down on her knees beside the bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Aunt Rose," he said, his voice horse. "Where is she?"

Cortana looked away, and when she felt that she had full control of her emotions she turned back towards him. Her hand crept into his, holding it tightly. "Jack what do you remember?"

Jack's eyebrows furrowed in thought. He never forgot things, even the most mundane of events sticking to his memory for all time. It was as much of a curse as it was a gift, his mind easily becoming cluttered, although strangely enough never full. Cortana had taught him a few tricks so that he could maintain some semblance of mental organization, but mostly he had to teach himself. Now he opened the file cabinet inside his own mind, fingers skimming through the infinite row of documents. "John told me to go up to her apartment. He was scared, but he was trying not to show it. He was scared that something would happen to you." The lines across his forehead deepened as he continued to search through the files. His hand brushed against the next document, a picture of a brunet girl in a yellow sundress with features eerily similar to his mother. He put that document away. It was not something he wanted to worry his mother about, not now. Jack moved on to the next document, but found that all the words contained in it were covered in black ink, the word REDACTED stamped across the top of the white page in red lettering.

Jack shook his head, "I'm not sure. I…I don't remember." He saw his mother's eyes leave his again, and it was enough to for him to guess some of what had happened. "She's dead isn't she?" When his mother did not answer Jack knew for sure. His chin began to quiver, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

Cortana wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close. Her hand began to rub his back, making small circles as he did. It was a familiar sensation to Jack, Cortana having done it in order to make him feel better for as long as he could remember. It was what she had done when he was an infant when he began to cry in the middle of the night, when he would hit his growth spurts and the pain became so intense that he could not even speak, or even when (as children his age sometimes do) he felt sad for no reason in particular.

Jack closed his eyes as he laid his head again Cortana's shoulder, and after several minutes of her rubbing his back his eyes dried up. When he felt he could speak, he did. "Where is John and Jake?"

"They're taking care of a few things," Cortana said, her voice subdued. "They'll be back soon."

…

The squat Irish man walked down the hallway, his mind mostly absent of thought but surprisingly fully sober. What Pat did have was a pounding headache, and a tongue so dry he was sure he could break it off if he wanted too. Right now all he was focused on was getting back to his apartment, provided that his old lady had not seen fit to lock him out again. He yawned as he passed Rosalita's apartment, stealing a quick glance at the doorway which was still blocked off with crime scene tape. The FBI agents that had been there to investigate the murder were much more efficient than what Pat had expected, and even with his vision impaired by the massive hangover induced migraine and the darkness of the apartment's interior, he was still able to see that all the blood had been cleaned up. He had not seen the massive amounts of blood himself, but from what some of the people around the neighborhood were saying, the three men that had been killed in there had screamed like banshees.

Pat fumbled for his keys inside of his pocket as he reached his front door. The tumbled out of his hand and fell onto the floor, and Pat could hear his bones creak like a rusting gate as he bent down pick them up. As he stood he saw movement to his left down the dimly lit hallway, a massive figure striding towards him. Pat squinted, and then recognized who it was.

"Oh, it's you," Pat said to John, the Spartan moving to stand just a few feet away from him. Pat craned his neck upwards to look John in the eye. "Never did catch your name, least not that I remember."

"John."

"John," Pat repeated to himself. "Been seeing you around a lot. You're here every day to see Cor and her kid."

John said nothing, but his thoughts were far from quiet. _Of course you've seen us. You were paid by the enemy to watch us. _

Pat shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to alleviate the aching of his soles. "Look, I know I wasn't exactly sober the first time we met."

"You weren't," John said coldly.

"Right," Pat agreed. "Point is I'm not always that much of a jerk. Yeah I don't like the fact that Cor lives here, I mean Hell's Kitchen is for the Irish right?" John remained silent, and Pat suppressed the urge to cough. The man's eyes reminded Pat of the boys he had seen come back from the war in the Pacific, or even the eyes of the boss himself. "What I'm trying to say is that I know you're not going anywhere anytime soon, so I'd rather us just start over on the right foot." He stuck out his hand towards John. "What do you say?"

John considered Pat's offered hand, then slowly brought his own up, shaking the other man's hand firmly. The Master Chief's grip tightened, and like a cobra his other hand shot up, grabbing the whole of Pat's right arm. Pat opened his mouth, perhaps to ask what the hell was going on, or maybe to call for help, or mayhap to simply scream in pain as John crushed the bones in his hand. Whatever he was going to do Pat's words were silenced before they even began as a band of piano wire was wrapped tightly around his throat.

Jake stood behind Pat as he garroted him, his face that of pure concentrated anger. Pat's face turned a deep shade of blue, then purple. His eyes were bulging out of their sockets, his free hand attempting to clutch the piano wire around his throat which was cutting into his neck so deeply he was beginning to bleed. With one last pathetic swing of his arm at the man behind him, Pat's body went completely limp. John let go of Pat's arm, and similarly Jake let go of the wire, the man's body flopping like a fish head first onto the floor.

"I wanted to do that for years," Jake quietly admitted as he massaged both of his aching hands. "You got the body right?"

John nodded grimly.

"Well," Jake said, nudging Pat's corpse with his shoe. "If your plan is to send a message, make sure it's a loud one."

…

**DEAD MAN HUNG UPSIDE DOWN BY A TREE IN CENTRAL PARK STILL UNIDENTIFIED**

Mahone shook his head in disgust as he read the headline in the New York Times. "What the hell is this city coming too," he muttered. Jake sat beside him in the driver's seat, weaving in and out of the traffic, eyes occasionally glancing at the rear view mirror. "Got another mob war on our hands kid. Been nearly twelve years since the last one ended."

"You sure about that?" Jake asked, again looking at the mirror, a blue Plymouth filling his vision.

"Hundred percent," Mahone said, flipping his thumb through the pages. "Guess you were too young to remember the last one. Happened in the tail end of the thirties and lasted till the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor." Jake pretended to listen, most of his attention focused on the Plymouth. It was following them, Jake was sure of it. It had not taken much detective work for him and John to figure out that North Central was using organized crime in New York to do much of their footwork. They had seen this sort of strategy before in other worlds, so it naturally followed that the Red would employ it in this one. This meant that Jake and John had to take on the mafia by themselves. Jake supposed this was fairly easy compared to some of the other things they had done.

"Yep," Mahone said, folding up the paper and leaning back in his seat. "Stuff going on now brings up memories. Bodies showing up in the Hudson, car bombs, wise guys getting gunned down in broad daylight, then this," he tapped t newspaper. "Just like last time. Nothing beats the twenties though. That was a rough time, let me tell ya. People slaying each other like we were back in feudal Europe over a few hundred dollars worth of booze."

"Sounds tough," Jake commented uncommitted as he eased to a stop at a red light. He watched as the Plymouth glided in behind him, counting down the distance, hand slowing moving to the revolver at his hip.

The street around them vibrated like it was being shook by a violent earthquake, Jake and Mahone lurching forward in their seats as behind them the Plymouth erupted in flames. "Jesus Christ, Mary, Joseph…" Mahone muttered as he slid himself out of the car, Jake already several feet ahead of him with his revolver drawn. He saw the driver trapped inside the car, arms flailing uselessly at the door as his body lit up like a roman candle, his skin burning until it was nothing but charred black ash, his face frozen in an expression of pure horrified pain as he died until that to was swallowed by the fire.

Another Plymouth pulled up, its tires screeching on the pavement, and Jake instinctively got to one knee, Mahone dropping as well right beside him. Two men got out of the car, and from the bulges underneath their suits Jake could tell they were armed. He raised his revolver at them, shouting, "Freeze!" The two men stopped, hands slowly raising up into the air.

What sounded like a cannon split through the air, two sharp cracks, followed by two sprays of pink mist as the men's heads disintegrated with the impact of the high caliber round. Jake raised his revolver upwards, scanning the roof tops, all of his actions no more than an act, and he had to repress a smile when he caught sight of a green blur running across one of the roofs.

…

Dillion spun the wheel of the car around in a wide circle, following the car in front of him, making sure to keep at least a hundred feet worth of distance. It was dark, the night closing in around them like the wooden boards to a coffin, he headlights providing the only illumination. The street lamps were off, had been off for several days, the newspapers going nuts over city hall's apparent inability to maintain such a basic public service, not to mention the violence that had swept Manhattan over the past few weeks.

Inside of the car were four other men, their weapons concealed, eyes glued to the view beyond the windows. This is what they had been reduced too, patrolling the streets instead of making money like they should all at the behest of whoever was really running the show.

Dillion sighed. It had not always been like this. He was old enough to remember the thirties, to remember the last war. The Irish mob had been on the decline for decades, slowly but surely losing ground to the Italians. But one man had decided to change all that, one man had stood up and untied the Irish mob in Hell's Kitchen into one cohesive unit, one man had taken on all five families at once and nearly won.

The boss.

The Irishman.

The one that many said was unkillable.

He turned onto another street, still following the car in front which was filled with even more gangsters, caught up in the wind of nostalgia. It was back in those days that the boss taught them to be proud of who they were, to not let others take what their ancestors had rightfully earned in this land. Dillion's own grandfather had gotten off the ship from Ireland in the 1860's, lured to America by promises of opportunity in wealth. Instead the first greeting he got was for a rifle to be shoved into his hands and told to march down south to fight Lincoln's war. It was the boss that had reminded them of that fact, reminded them of the oppression of their people. Things were different now, Dillion reflected. The world had moved on. Another player had entered the field, had forced a truce down upon them, and now it was North Central that really ran things.

"What the hell is that?" the man beside him said, shaking Dillion out of his thoughts. Dillion squinted, making out a bright trail of light heading towards the lead car. The rocket slammed into the car in front of Dillion, blowing it apart until it was nothing but hunks of twisted metal. Dillion shifted into neutral, turning the wheel sharply as he did, the wheels skidding until the car was facing in the opposite direction. He shifted into first and slammed on the accelerator, moving into second, and then quickly into third, his left and right legs moving in tandem. He had just reached sixty when a dark green object fell from the sky, boots smashing into the hood of the car, and Dillion's body was flung forward, his face smashing through the windshield.

His face was bloody, Dillion feeling the warm liquid running down his skin from a hundred small cuts. Behind him he could hear gun fire, more glass shattering, and screams. He stood up, every bone aching, sure that he had broken some of them, and he began to limp as fast as he could away from the carnage. A police car pulled into the deserted street ahead of him, and for one of the few times in his life Dillion was actually glad to see a cop. More than glad, he was elated, eagerly moving towards his salvation as the sounds of the dying continued to play behind him. The patrol car stopped a few feet away from him and a man stepped out. Jake leveled the revolver at Dillion and fired once, the bullet piercing his head.

John reloaded his assault rifle as he jumped down off of the ruined hood of the car, all the occupants inside riddled with bullets. Ahead of him Jake pocketed the spent cartridge and reloaded, his darkened face reflecting off of the orange visor of the Spartan's MJOLNIR helmet. "We've been making a bit of a mess," Jake commented, holstering his weapon. "NYPD's stretched thin. I'm not even supposed to be out on my own yet."

John turned around to look at the wreckage of the two cars they had just destroyed, evidence of their most recent conquest. "I said we would send a message."

Jake shrugged, "Guess it helps that you're running around on rooftops like Batman."

John turned back around, tilting his head. "Batman?"

"Never mind." He looked up, hearing sirens in the distance. "Better get going. I'll circle back around and make it look like I just arri…" He turned to face John again only to find the Spartan gone, nothing more than a gust of summer wind taking his place. _Well at least he has that part right, _Jake thought.

…

Jake slowed the Buick to a smooth stop, opening the door a getting a much needed wave of fresh air. He could smell the Atlantic Ocean coming in from a steady western breeze from the shore of Long Island, and he slammed the door on the Buick, forever locking in the stench of death inside. There were three low men piled in the back seat, a tarp draped over them, concealing both their dead bodies and the bleeding Crimson eye on their foreheads. Two more were stuffed into the trunk.

John pulled up in Jake's police car soon after, opening up the driver side door, Jake walking up and leaning up against it. He had not slept in days, his nights spent hunting men and low men alike, him and the Master Chief killing anyone they even remotely suspected of even having a passing affiliation with North Central. Jake's logic told him that they may very well have killed some innocent people along away, all in the effort of proving the 'point', even if the point they were trying to convey was far too abstract for either one of them to identify. His emotions told him a different story. They told him that what they were doing was right, was justified, was something that needed to be done, that if what they were doing was wrong something would surely have intervened by now. As it stood they had been working nonstop for weeks, and John's time was quickly running out. If there was some ultimate objective to be had, they would need to find it soon. Killing for the sake of killing was only getting them so far.

"Move over," Jake said, and John raised an eyebrow. "Eddie told me the horror stories about what you're like behind the wheel. I drive." For a moment he thought John was going to argue, but instead he slid over into the passenger seat soundlessly. Jake got in, spinning the car in the direction of New York City proper. This part of Long Island was still undeveloped, a rare glimpse at what Manhattan itself had been like for most of its history, wide swaths of grassy fields punctuated by clumps of trees and wild creeks, nature in all its chaotic beauty. It would not last, him and John only having to drive a handful of minutes before they neared urbanization again, but for right now it was nice.

John pulled a detonator from out of his jean's pocket, compressing the red button with his thumb. In the distance a small mushroom cloud erupted, killing the night for a few seconds with its furious orange and yellow glare. Jake rolled down the window and lit a cigarette, the wind rushing through his blonde hair. With his other hand he turned on the radio.

_Do not forsake me, oh, my darlin',  
On this, our wedding day.  
Do not forsake me, oh, my darlin',  
Wait; wait alone.  
I do not know what fate awaits me.  
I only know I must be brave.  
And I must face a man who hates me,  
Or lie a coward, a craven coward;  
Or lie a coward in my grave._

Jake turned the volume dial up on the radio. "I like this song."

_Oh, to be torn 'twixt love an' duty.  
S'posin' I lose my fair-haired beauty.  
Look at that big hand move along,  
Nearing high noon._

"It's not bad," John admitted, his own window down. He breathed in deeply with his nose, taking in the smell of fresh grass, leaning back in his seat as he felt the warm air roll across his weary face.

_He made a vow while in states prison:  
Vowed it would be my life for his an',  
I'm not afraid of death but, oh, what shall I do,  
If you leave me?  
Do not forsake me, oh, my darlin':  
You made that promise as a bride.  
Do not forsake me, oh, my darlin'.  
Although you're grievin', don't think of leavin',  
Now that I need you by my side._

They rode together, the gunslinger and a Spartan, the lights of the city blooming brighter the closer they came two it, the two rivers that framed it reflecting the crescent moon, the harbor which was framed by the twin cities promising new beginnings, and new struggles. They rode, allowing themselves just for a moment, for that one good moment, to free themselves from the slavery of thought and the chains of duty.


	31. Chapter 31: Vendetta Part II

**A/N: About what Cortana is going through in this chapter, and indeed in the last few chapters. I know many of you were upset when Cortana's unborn daughter was killed, but there is a reason behind it. This chapter comes from a very personal place for me, and it is a subject I've wanted to write about for a while. I hope you enjoy and as always please review. **

Chapter 31: Vendetta Part II (And Rumors of Wars)

The basketball swished effortlessly through the net, not even grazing the orange rim, and Jack frowned as it bounced back towards him. Cortana also frowned at Jack's expression, watching as he sunk another basket at a distance that was equivalent to a three point shot. A black ledger was open on her lap, opened bills on the small table in front of her. They were on the roof of the apartment, Jake having set up the basketball hoop so that Jack could have at least some recreation. He was strictly forbidden from the leaving the apartment after North Central's attack, an order that was akin to caging a wild animal.

Jack placed the ball in one hand and halfheartedly threw it at the basket, this time feeling a touch of anger as it went in yet again. He felt angry more often now, and not just because of Rosalita's death. Nobody was telling him anything, as if he was oblivious to what was going on, that something was not right. How could he not know? And yet, absolutely no one seemed to trust him.

As Jack continued to dribble the ball, Cortana focused again on her bills. Jake's paycheck was still coming in, and with that they were managing to squeak by, but she had long since stopped being a breadwinner.

Cortana had made a call to her boss, Tom, explaining to him that she was going to take extended time off due to a death in the family. Tom was nice, was considerate of her particular situation, and Cortana initially had no doubt that he would be amenable to her request. That had changed the moment she heard his voice.

"Cortana," he had said, his voice that of a man who sounded sick with a stomach virus. "I was just about to call you."

"Is everything alright," she had responded. It was a phrase she had expected to hear from him, but instead she was the one to utter it.

"Unfortunately... no," he said. There was a pause of several breaths, perhaps needed so that he could collect himself. "I just got word from our landlord. He sold the property to a new owner, company by the name of Sombra. They're…" His words faltered, and Cortana heard Tom clear his throat on the other line. "We're going to have to close the restaurant."

"I…" Cortana felt her throat closing in around her. Sombra, a subsidiary of North Central. Of all the ways the Red could attack them, Cortana had never thought of this. "I understand."

Tom sighed, and Cortana could imagine him rubbing his face. "I'm sorry about this. It wasn't my decision. You're the best worker I've ever had, and I know you have a kid…"

"It's fine," Cortana said, putting on a fake smile even though he could not see her. "We'll manage." She had hung up then, not being able to bring herself to staying on the phone longer. Cortana's legs had buckled and she sank to the kitchen floor.

_Stand up_, she told herself. _You're stronger than this. You've been through worse than this. _

"Mom?" It had been Jack who had found her, and Cortana felt a pang of self loathing that her son had to see her in that state.

"I just fell," she said, giving an explanation that was perhaps too hasty. She used the counter to pull herself up, but could not hide the fact that her knees were still shaking. Jack looked down, noticing that Cortana had placed a hand over her stomach, and she quickly removed it.

Cortana tapped her pen on the open page of the ledger. It was something that had become a necessity when her brain was transformed into something with only human level intelligence and memory. The math was simple enough, and she could stretch even the most meager paychecks farther than what even a trained accountant could do, but she still needed a way to keep track of it all. She made another check on her son, Jack now having turned around so that his back was facing the hoop, his eyes squeezed shut. He tossed the ball over his head and Cortana tracked its wide arch as it landed neatly in the basket.

When Jack's cheeks turned red when he saw that he had made the shot Cortana asked, "What's wrong?"

"I never miss," Jack complained, catching the ball as it bounced to him. "Things would be more interesting if I missed." Either because of anger or design, Jack chucked the ball several yards away from him, deliberately aiming at the ground. It hit the roof of the building and bounced up in the air, heading straight for the hoop. The ball landed on the rim and seemed to teeter on the edge, and then went in. Jack's face fully flushed with anger, and this time when the ball came to him he kicked it. The basketball sailed over the ledge of the roof, falling into the alley way below.

He felt his mother place a hand on his shoulder and shrugged it off, sulking away from her.

The master bedroom was the shade of twilight, though morning itself was well into the middle part of its cycle. Within the room, a single figure lay in the bed, her eyes wide open and fully awake, but unable to stir. She was not really looking at anything, her bare shoulders peeking out of the covers, and a hand was placed over her stomach desperate to feel anything. She removed her hand, tapped into what remained of her willpower, and tried again.

_Get up_. Cortana willed her brain to send signals to her legs, would have been happy with so much as a twitch towards the edge of the bed, but they did not move. It was as someone had put a weight over her entire body, pressing her deeper in the mattress. What Cortana really desired in that moment was to stay in bed, to put the covers over her head and plunge headfirst into the darkness and leave all the worlds behind.

But she could not do that. Not when the ones she cared about deepened on her to put on a smile, even if it was false, who needed to lean on her for comfort. John had needed comfort he night after North Central's attack, Jake needed comfort, and Jack at his age needed constant attention. They all needed her, and this crippling sense of depression was not something that could be tolerated.

It was something that Cortana had to deal with every morning since her miscarriage, and again she commanded, _Get up. _Her leg moved a few centimeters, and Cortana took a deep breath, preparing to give the mental command once more.

The door opened, John's large frame stepping through. He had been out all night, had been out every night, Cortana seeing less and less of him in the past few weeks, and he would be gone for most of the day. He sat down by her feet, Cortana feeling his eyes on her and she turned her head away, face half buried in the pillow.

"Go on and say it," she muttered bitterly.

"Say what?" John asked. It was an innocent question, but it still infuriated her.

"Say what you're thinking. What everyone is thinking," she responded. "Say that I should have been up hours ago, that this is not the first morning this has happened, that something is wrong with me, that I'm a terrible mother whose son won't even look at her."

"That's not true," John said firmly. "He's worried about you."

"It is," Cortana said, lifting her head up just enough so that she could look at him.

"Cortana," John began. He was in agonizingly familiar territory with her, and he tried to pick his words carefully. "I can't fix this if I don't know what's wrong."

"What's wrong?" Cortana asked rhetorically. "Maybe it's that I hardly see you because you're out stirring up a hornet's nest just so that you can feel like you're accomplishing something, and we are the ones that are going to have to deal with the fallout once you leave like you always do. Hasn't the idea that the Red doesn't care how many of their soldiers you kill even occurred to you, that maybe there was a better option than giving them more reasons to go after us? Maybe it's because we haven't made love since the miscarriage. Did you think about that?"

"You were injured…"

"I know!" Cortana said, holding back a sob, burying her face in the pillow again. "I was there. But that was weeks ago, and you haven't even tried since then."

John tilted his head downward. There was something wrong, this attitude not something Cortana would have ever adopted before. She was a fighter, just like he was, but now it seemed as if she had lost all conviction. What was certain was that this was more than just temporary grief. It was something much deeper than that.

"You're not even going to say anything," she said in the face of John's continued silence. "But I know what you're thinking. You think I'm broken."

"You're not broken," John said, looking up.

Cortana shook her head into the pillow. "Just leave me alone."

There was hurt in John's eyes, and he thought about leaving the room like she said, but decided to take a different route. Instead he laid down on the bed next to her, wrapping an arm around her slender frame. Cortana stiffened at first, but then rolled over and buried her head into his chest.

"What's wrong with me?" she whispered to him.

"We'll find out," John said. "Together, just like always."

…

Jack stirred the cereal in his bowl thoughtfully, occasionally glancing at the hallway, waiting for John to bring his mom out of the bedroom. Jake sat across from him, a bowl in front of him as well as a newspaper. Jack brought the spoon up to his mouth, but dropped the contents back into the bowl, finding that he did not have much of an appetite.

John.

Jack was not blind, he could see the similarities between him and John, and for a brief period of time he had suspected, or rather wished, that John was his actual father. He had eventually dismissed this idea as a wishful fantasy. Cortana had told him his real father had died in the war, and while she did keep things from him, he was confident she would never lie to him. That was one constant he could always depend on, that his mother would always tell him the truth. Besides, Jack reasoned, he did have Jake. He did not need a real father with Jake around.

What Jack also knew was that there was something wrong. There was something wrong with him. He was self aware, had long ago realized that children his age should not be able to think the way he thought, be able to do the things he could do. People in general did not have a perfect memory, but somehow he did.

But more important to him, there was something wrong with his mom.

"Is she going to be alright?" he asked.

Jake looked up from the paper. "Do you want the honest answer?" he asked, and Jack nodded. "I really don't know."

Jack played with his cereal some more, dunking soggy cornflakes deep into the milk. "She's sick, isn't she?"

Jake thought about Jack's words. Sick, it may not have been a word Jake would have used himself, but it seemed to fit. "Yeah she's sick."

"The city's sick," he said, lifting up a large pile of cornflakes and dumping it into the milk, a large wave nearly crashing over the bowl's boundaries as a result. "I can feel it. I'd know it even if it wasn't on the news every night. A lot of people are getting hurt, and the whole city is scared because of it."

Jake looked down at the newspaper, the articles detailing the latest acts of violence. Violence that he and John had committed themselves the day before, and editorials calling for the National Guard to be sent in to keep order. It was the largest violent crime spree in New York of the twentieth century, and people were frightened. _They have every right to be_, Jake thought. _How could they possibly know what's really going on? That we're not trying to endanger them?_ He looked up at Jack.

"Are you afraid?"

Jack hesitated before answering, "Yes, but only because you guys won't tell me anything."

"Do you really think us telling you would make you less scared?" Jake asked.

"It would help," Jack said glumly, and was greeted with a light chuckle.

"Sometimes ignorance is bliss." He reached over and ruffled Jack's hair. "All you need to know is that I would never let anything bad happen to any of you."

Jack pushed Jake's hand away with a small smile. "I know." The smile turned into a frown as he looked back down at the cereal. "I don't like be scared. I wish I was brave like the gunslingers in the westerns you take me to see, that way I wouldn't have to be scared anymore."

"Is that what you think being brave means?" Jake asked, and Jack nodded. "Well your wrong."

"I'm never wrong," Jack replied.

Jake shook his head, "You may be the smartest kid I know, but that doesn't mean you're always right, and that's something you need to remember. Jack, the only people who say they are never scared are either lying or idiots. Being brave means having fear and doing it anyway."

"Sounds corny," Jack said, causing Jake to smile.

"Just because something is corny, doesn't make it less true."

"Guess you're right," Jack admitted. He decided to take another stab at eating, putting a spoonful into his mouth, but found that he had waited too long, the flakes now a collective mush lacking any texture rather than having the usual crunchiness that he enjoyed. Jack picked it up to go pour the cereal out, but Jake stopped him.

"Finish it."

With a grumble Jack sat back down, resentfully putting another spoonful into his mouth. "You have to work today?"

"Have the day off," Jake said. He had been planning on going out to do some more 'hunting', but that idea changed with Jack's next question.

"Think you could hang out with me today? Things have been kind of boring."

Jake was torn between duties, unsure of which one to pick, until Jack looked at him with those wide blue eyes, and he knew that he could not say no. "Sure."


	32. Chapter 32 Vendetta Part III

**A/N Not sure why the formatting got messed up with this chapter, but hopefully this will fix it. **

Chapter 32: Vendetta Part III (The Irishman)

John did not have to sleep, could not sleep. He could close his eyes, lower his breathing, put himself into a completely relaxed state, but he always held onto consciousness. It was an ability he would have killed for during the Human Covenant War, but now that he had it John found that he missed the activity, the ability to dream, to let the subconscious run wild and actively process everything he had experienced.

It was in this state that he felt Cortana move against him, and then press her lips onto his. Her hands roamed his body with desperation, fingers tugging on the band of his boxers, John reaching down to help her. With one fluid movement he flipped Cortana on her back and she opened her legs and raised them as he moved on top of her. He looked into her eyes for confirmation, seeing them in the dim twilight of the room, and she gave a small nod, almost pleading in a way.

John moved his hips forward, easing into her. Cortana bit her lip as the pain came, then gave a small cry when it became too much, feeling as if she was being burned by a hot iron. John eased out as gently as he could, his eyes full of concern as he position himself to lay beside her, Cortana rubbing a hand across her face in frustration.

"Selena said she would make sure I would never have children again," she said, her eyes welling up. "It shouldn't still hurt like this."

John attempted to put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, but Cortana rolled away from the display of affection, turning her back to him.

…

The sliver of light from the hallway expanded into the second bedroom as John walked into the door, his shadow falling over Jack who was sleeping with one foot and an arm hanging off the bed, his other limbs splayed out in the opposite direction, his pillow lying on the floor. John gave a fraction of a smile. Cortana had told him about their son's aversion to sleeping like a normal person, and even though he had seen Jack in this position before he still found it amusing.

He picked the pillow up and placed in back under Jack's head, the child not even stirring. He was a heavy sleeper, and Jack did little more than grunt as John placed his rouge arm and leg back onto the mattress and covered him again with the blanket. It would not last, Jack reverting back to some other awkward position within the span of an hour, but it still felt good to John to do it. Gently he ran a hand through Jack's hair once before leaving the room.

As he continued down the hallway he smelled smoke, and was not surprised to see Jake standing by the living room window, a cigarette lobbing smoke deep into the night. Jake discarded the smoke when he caught sight of John, the red embers of the lit end tracing an arc of glowing light as it tumbled down into the alley below.

"Been waiting on you all day." It was a comment, not an accusation.

"She needed me," John said simply, taking a seat on the couch, and noticing a file laying on the coffee table in front of him.

"Present," Jake said. He closed the window and sat down next to him. "Don't ask me how I got it. It was a pain in the ass and I don't care to relive it." He watched John give a small nod. "She needs a doctor."

"She doesn't want to see one," John said. "Not to tell her something she already knows."

"That wasn't the kind of doctor I was thinking of," Jake said. He leaned forward, looking at the file, but his thoughts and words were elsewhere. "Jack told me this morning that he thought she was sick. I'm not sure if he's aware of how right he is, but he is right. I know you love her John, but I don't think you're exactly equipped to give her the help she really needs right now." Jake felt the cold stare on him, had expected it. He knew that in some ways it was justified, considering all John and Cortana had been through together, but he also knew that when she had been suffering from rampancy John had not been foolish enough to think that he could fix her all on his own. He had known then that he needed help, Dr. Halsey's help, and Jake prayed that he could see that this situation was very similar. He explained himself the best he could. "You can't cure her, like I wouldn't be able to cure her if she had the flu."

"She's the strongest person I know," John responded evenly. "You don't give her enough credit."

"She's also human," Jake replied, glancing over at him. "More human now than she ever was, and there is also no way we could ever even hope to comprehend what happened to her, what was taken from her. Cortana had to fight tooth and nail just to make sure Jack lived long enough to even have a chance to be born. She believes it's her job to protect him from everything, to protect her daughter from everything." He saw John wince at the mentioning of his unborn daughter, and Jake gave him a few moments to recover from the still fresh and eternally agonizing memory. "I think Cortana feels like she failed, but I also think the problem is a bit deeper than that."

"It's my fault. I should have never come back," John said quietly. "Gan told me that if they were going to be safe I would have to stay away. I didn't, and this is what happened." It took several deep breaths, attempting to calm the storm raging inside his chest, each lightning strike a stab of pain. He motioned his head towards the file. "Open it."

Jake slid the file over to him and flipped it open, John catching sight of a picture of a middle age man with dull red hair, green eyes, a thick mustache, a strong jaw, and furrowed eyebrows. He was far from being an attractive man, although he might have been handsome once, and in many ways there was still a ruggedness about him that many women would be attracted too. He was well built, his body lean and muscular, his arms crossed in the photo, his body language that of a man who knew for a fact that nobody could touch him.

"Danny Greene," Jake said. "Aka the boss, aka the Irishman. Joined the Irish Republican Army in 1919 when he was fifteen and fought in the Irish War of Independence for two years, and then in the Irish Civil War after the Anglo-Irish Treaty was signed. His side, the ones that opposed the treaty, lost and he ended up immigrating to the U.S. to avoid being killed. He worked here for a while to promote what he would call a true Irish Free State, but he either lost interest, or more likely, got sidetracked by other endeavors. Irish mob has been on the decline for most of the twentieth century, largely due to the growth of the Italian mafia. New York and Boston are still strong holdouts, but not even close to what they once were, at least until he came along. Most Irish mobsters worked as freelancers, and so did he for a while, but that meant kicking at least thirty percent of his earnings upstairs to whoever the mob decided to put in charge of him. He's smart, charismatic, stubborn to a fault, and extremely lucky."

John raised an eyebrow at this, "That's in there?"

"Yup," Jake said, flipping the page, John noticing the symbol for the FBI on the top right hand corner. Jake skimmed through a few paragraphs, using his finger as a guide. "Right here. 'Danny Greene is, if anything else, extraordinarily lucky, a fact he has demonstrated and even bragged about many times over.'" Jake took his finger off the page, "He took over Hell's Kitchen, effectively kicking the Italians out, and now runs it like a feudal kingdom. Of course the Italians went to war over it. God forbid they get shown up by a flat footed mick. Greene even egged them on, made sure every single person in the city knew exactly where he lived and what his daily routine was. He was outgunned and outnumbered. At least thirty six bombs went off in the summer of '38, one of which demolished his house while he was still inside of it, and all he got was some minor injuries. There were well over a dozen attempts on his life, and he survived every single one of them. That's where his other unofficial nickname comes from."

"Which is?" John asked.

"Unkillable." He said the word slowly, giving it as much weight as he could, but all John gave him was a highly skeptical look. "If you've read everything on him that I've had you'll be able to see why people view him that way, and that is also why I think he can help us."

John's look grew even more skeptical, "Explain."

"We know virtually all organized crime in New York is controlled by North Central. I don't think we'd be right to assume that they are this heavy handed in every word they have influence in, but given that we are here I think they saw it as a necessity. Greene's vendetta against the Italians started because he resented the fact that he had to kick money upstairs to them, money he felt they did not earn. It's no coincidence that the war ended shortly after North Central filed for articles of incorporation in this reality. I have a feeling he hates North Central as much as we do for strong arming him into a peace he did not want, and he absolutely loathes the Italians. With the right amount of persuasion…"

"We can convince him to work for us," John finished for him, Jake nodding in agreement.

"More than that, he could give us information on every crime boss in the city. With the right kind of intelligence we could through North Central's entire operation in New York into disarray overnight."

"And the fact that we've killed dozens of his men won't bother him?" John asked.

"Oh I think it will bother him," Jake replied. "Just as I'm sure it bothered you when you had to fight with the Elites against a common enemy."

John could not argue with Jake's logic there. The enemy of my enemy. All it would take was the right amount of convincing. "Where do we find him?"

"Like I said, he's not shy of advertising where he is going to be."

…

Danny Greene pushed the dead body off of him, kicking with his legs to get out of the upturned car, the heat from the growing fire causing sweat to mingle with blood on his face. His fingers brushed up against a shotgun and he grabbed a hold of it, pushing himself out of the broken window and onto his feet. They were technically out of the city, well past Yonkers, his escort bringing him back from a visit with his kids and a very cold reception from his estranged wife.

His escort was dead now, and Greene pumped the shotgun, eyes open for an threat. There was a shimmer of movement and Greene fired, and his eyes widened when he saw an orange glow surround the creature. The armor clad giant began to run parallel to the street, Greene emptying the shotgun as it ran, the creature running faster than anything he had ever seen before. That was alright, Greene reasoned. It was like his father had taught him when he was still just a child, before he was killed during the Easter Rising. If you know you're going to die, the least you can do is die standing.

Greene started laughing, almost maniacally, when the giant disappeared from view. "Is that all you got you worthless cowardly fuck?" He twirled around, searching the darkness. "Come on out and show yourself." Two gauntleted seized him by the shoulders from behind, and Greene unsuccessfully tried to squirm away from John's iron grip. In an act of desperation he propped the shotgun on his shoulder, aiming blindly behind him, and squeezed the trigger.

He must have been as lucky as they said because John was struck in the face with the shotgun blast, dropping his shields to zero, though it would not have mattered anyway if it had penetrated his armor. The act did surprise him enough, however, for him to let go of Greene. The next thing the Master Chief saw was Greene swinging the butt of the shotgun at him, and John effortlessly blocked the blow with his arm, the wood splintering against his armor. He had no intention of hurting the man, would not have killed the men he had been with if they had not shot at him first, although John would later reflect that seeing a fully armored Spartan appearing in the middle of the road was not the friendliest of greetings. There was a valid reason why diplomacy was not his strong suit.

"I'm not going…" John tried to say before Greene took a swing at him, hitting John in the chest and breaking his fingers with a loud crunch.

Greene bit his tongue from the pain and staggered backwards, his eyes widening as he took in John completely for the first time.

"Calm down," John tried again.

Greene's lips curled into a snarl, and amazingly he got into a fighting stance, raising both fists broken fingers and all. "You don't think I don't know who you are?" he asked rhetorically. "You can drag me to hell, and I'll fight you every inch of the way." With his good left hand he motioned for John to come closer. "Let's go."

John closed his eyes in frustration, feeling the urge to thud his head against his faceplate.

He summoned the lighting, the bolt striking a tree behind Greene and setting it on fire, the Irishman turning around in surprise. John closed the distance swiftly and lifted Greene off his feet, holding him at arm's length. Greene continued to struggle, and spat at John's visor.

"I am not going to hurt you," John said, saying each word slowly.

Greene scoffed at him, but stopped struggling. "You're the one that has been killing my boys for the past month."

"Yes," John said. "But I have a proposition."

**A/N: Just a disclaimer. I based the character Danny Greene on a real historical figure, even borrowed the name, but I did change a few things so that he would fit into the story. Tell me what you think of him, as well as what you thought of the whole chapter. **


	33. Chapter 33: Enemy of my Enemy

Chapter 33: Enemy of my Enemy

"A demon?" Agent Smith asked. He had his back turned to Greene who was sitting at the table in the cramped interrogation room deep inside the 19th Precinct on East 67th Street, the air tinged with the slight sense of mold, a brown water stain on the ceiling above giving credence to that observation.

"Best way I describe him," Greene said, taking a sip of the tea in front of him, swallowing hard. "Sure that's not what he was, but it seems fitting. Felt like I was hitting a brick wall when I punched him."

Smith turned around and raised an eyebrow at Greene's right hand which had been consumed by a white cast. "I can see that much." He lowered his head, eyes going unfocused as he thought. It was not a demon, that much Smith could be sure of, but if what Greene told him was true then the description of the man who had been reeking chaos in New York for the past month was similar to the armor Fred had worn when he first met him. Smith had been unsuccessfully attempting to track John down without having to resort to making contact with Cortana Toren. He was still not sure what the relationship between the two of them was, but he had several theories. Either way, he had been close to asking Fred to assist him, but now with the information Greene had provided him Smith knew that would be a costly mistake. If Fred ever got wind that there might be another Spartan operating in America, then Smith had no doubt he would go AWOL and try to find him. Never mind all the money the federal government invested in him.

Additionally, if Smith had another Spartan on his hands, then he very much doubted his agency had the capability of taking down such a target. There was only one viable option.

_Peace, _Smith thought.

"He made you an offer?" Smith asked, and Greene nodded. "Did you accept?"

"We're meeting tomorrow at Mrs. Toren's apartment to further discuss the proposed agreement," Greene said. He drained his tea, and then leaned over the table to grab the black cylinder shaped thermos, pouring more tea into his cup. He caught the look of irritation in Smith's eyes and smiled. "What, you boys didn't think of just knocking on the front door?"

Smith kept his voice steady. "My goal was to keep Mrs. Toren ignorant of our existence. Making direct contact now may very well jeopardize any plans we have for her son."

"Subject 117," Greene said thoughtfully. "What the hell is so important about him?"

Smith gave a small, taunting smile. "If you are going to meet them than its best that you don't know, not if you want to live just a little bit longer."

"No one can kill me," Greene said confidently, and Smith snorted .

"You really believe everything they say about you, don't you Danny?"

"They say it for a reason," Greene replied.

Smith looked down in thought again. Slowly he reached for the thermos himself, pouring the now only mildly warm beverage into his own cup which up until now had remained empty. "Mother always did say you craved attention. Good or bad."

"God forbid I took any attention away from you Tom. You were always her favorite." Greene's expression soured. "What I can't understand, what I'll never understand, is why you changed your God given name to one that every English prick and their mother has."

"It was necessary," Smith said. He did not sound as convincing as he normally was. There was silence between the two men as Smith took a sip of tea, punctuated only by the sound of water running through the pipes overhead. "If you agree to what they want, North Central will come after you."

"Tom, I've been waiting twelve years to do this," Greene said. "Those North Central rats weren't afraid of me, and with the Italians running towards them for protection I knew I couldn't win, but they're afraid of him. I can smell it. Maybe not the higher ups, but their foot soldiers are. The only question I have in my mind is why he did not come to me sooner."

Smith nodded, "I've been waiting for twelve years as well, and I have my own message I want you to tell him."

…

Cortana opened the door cautiously after the knock, only to have three men wearing casual work clothes and flat caps brush past her, hands deep in their pockets and she could easily make out the bulge of their revolvers hidden underneath the fabric. She glared at Greene who still stood in the hallway. "It was only suppose to be you."

Greene shrugged as he came in, taking off his own hat. "I never said anything about it being just me."

"I did," John said, Greene finding him standing in the middle of the living room, so tall that his head cleared the ceiling only by a few inches.

Greene waved dismissively at him, walking over to the refrigerator and opening it. "Considering I own this building and you pay rent to me, I figure I should be able to come here with as many people as I want." He grabbed a bottle of Nozzala and opened it with a bottle opener attached to the door. As he took a long gulp of the soda Cortana's glare intensified.

"I'm glad to see you are making yourself at home."

Greene winked at her, taking enjoyment at seeing John shift his stance when he did it. "I like to keep a pretty lady like you happy." He looked around the apartment, watching as his men checked the rooms, closed the blinds, looked under the beds; one man even going so far as to take a screwdriver to the radio, checking the wires and vacuum tubes inside critically.

"Where are your boys at?" Greene asked.

"None of your concern," John rumbled steadily. Rather than argue the point, Greene shook his head mildly, taking another sip of soda as he did.

"All clean boss," one of the men said, a tuff of ginger red hair poking out of his hat. When Greene gave a nod of approval the man turned around to face John. "Arms and legs shoulder width. I need to check you." To the man's credit he did not gulp or take a step back when John folded his arms across his chest, blue eyes meeting the man's green ones.

"That's alright John," Greene said. The Master Chief thought at first that Greene was talking to him, only to see the red haired man turn around to look at his employer. "If they wanted to kill me they would have tried it already."

John eyed the Master Chief suspiciously. "Whatever you say boss. We'll be waiting outside if you need us." The three men left the apartment and closed the door behind them, Greene sighing audibly after they left.

"I apologize. My son is a little overzealous when it comes to my safety." He set the empty soda bottle down and opened the window, despite the fact that his guards had taken the time to close the blinds. John and Cortana had assured him that there was no surveillance on their apartment, and he was willing to take their word on that. As he pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes he said, "John. Good strong name. Biblical name. It means 'God is gracious', or so I've read." He struck a match and looked straight at Cortana as he lit his cigarette. "His name is John," he said, gesturing over at the Chief. "And your husband that died in the war was named John. Hell of a coincidence don't you think?"

"Yes," Cortana said coldly. "It is."

Greene chuckled. "I may be an uneducated potato eater from the Irish countryside, but that don't mean I'm stupid Mrs. Toren. So please, don't treat me like I am."

"Duly noted," Cortana said unconvincingly, the tension in the air nearly palpable.

"You promised me information," John said, taking a step forward with his arms still crossed.

"I did," Greene agreed, taking a quick puff. "Seems that we've run into a bit of luck. Instead of having to hunt all six of the other bosses down individually you can nab them all in one go. North Central set up a meeting tonight. All the five families and even the monkey that runs Harlem are going to be there." He saw John and Cortana exchange glances, but was unsure what to make of it. "Starts in about five hours in Lucchese's restaurant in the Bronx. Calls it 'The Leaning Tower'." Again John and Cortana exchanged looks. "Something I should know about Greene asked indignantly.

"Nothing," Cortana said quickly. "At least nothing you need to be concerned about."

"I bet," Greene said, taking another drag.

"Their names," John said and Greene turned his attention towards him. "We need their names and the organizations they belong to."

"Would have thought you people would have figured that out already. Got to say I'm a bit disappointed."

"We have, and it wasn't that difficult," Cortana assured him. "But it would be helpful if you corroborated our own intelligence."

"Corroborated. Fancy word for someone who claimed not to even have a high school education when you first came here," Greene said mockingly, causing Cortana to furrow her eyebrows in irritation. Greene leaned back against the wall, crossing one leg over the other, the hand holding the cigarette hanging out the window. "Fine." With his right hand he began counting off the list of names. "Tommy Lucchese who just took over from Gagliano, Joseph Bonnano who's run his family for over twenty years, Albert Anastasia who was just appointed by North Central to avoid an internal power struggle, Frank Costello who took over after 'Lucky' Luciano in the thirties, and Joseph Profaci who's run things as long as Bonnano has. Those are the big fish, and together they make up La Cosa Nostra." The Irishman took a long drag, leaning out the window as he blew the smoke out. He switched over to his left hand to count off the last two. "Then you have me, Daniel John Greene of the White Hand, and Avery Junior Johnson of the Harlem Syndicate." When he saw them exchange yet another glance he coughed loudly. "Is there something I should know?"

"We didn't know about Johnson," the Chief lied quickly. In truth he had known about Johnson for a while.

Greene shrugged, although he was personally unconvinced that was the real reason for their constant glances at each other. "The Five Families made a big fuss about North Central including a colored on the council, but I was in favor of it. Not because I like the blacks mind you, but just because I like doing anything that gets the Italians all nice and mad."

"Some would say that the fact you are still alive is what makes them mad," Cortana pointed out.

"Then there's that," Greene said with a smile. He tossed the cigarette out of the window and then closed it. Cortana moved out of his way, expecting him to move towards the door, but instead he dug into his coat and pulled out a letter. "Have a message here from a friend of mine. He doesn't want me to use his name or tell you what organization he is a part of, but they have been in pretty deep with North Central for a while now. He wants you to know that they personally mean you no harm and do not condone what North Central is doing."

"And how are we suppose to trust them," Cortana said, eyeing the envelope. "Especially since they don't want us to know who they are."

"That's up to you. I don't speak for them," Greene said, tossing the envelope down on the coffee table. "But he said that if you had doubts to just read what's inside that." He placed his hat on top of his head and tipped it towards Cortana, then looked at John. "See you in a few hours."

Cortana waited for Greene to leave and then walked over to John, the Spartan staring down at the white envelope. "You don't have to do it," she said quietly, causing John to look at her. "I know how much Johnson meant to you."

John wrapped an arm around her and Cortana leaned in close. "Whatever it takes," he said. "He's not our Johnson."

"He'll look like him," Cortana said softly. "He'll sound like him, and he'll act like him. If Greene is one of your twims it's only just barely, but Johnson? He may be virtually identical to the one we knew."

John closed his eyes and brought his other arm up to hold her closer, wishing he had done more of this with her in his previous life instead of being caught up in getting over his own personal discomfort with people touching him. But Cortana had broken through eventually, and he was grateful for it. Eventually they moved to the couch, and Cortana reached a hand out to grab the envelope off the table, tearing it open. The message inside contained only four words, but they were enough to make Cortana's eyes widen in disbelief. "John."

John sat up straighter as he too read it.

**OLLY OLLY OXEN FREE **

"Fred."


	34. Chapter 34: The Seven Kings of New York

Chapter 34: Seven Kings of New York

Greene slipped quietly into the Italian restaurant, decorated to bring up images of a quiet Sicilian village, a bar stretched out on the right hand side with an innumerable amount of wine bottles on display, with the good liquor displayed in the center sealed behind a glass door, the bartender nowhere in sight. The tables were all round, crafted from faded wood and made to look as if they had all come from a place much poorer than this, all in the name of creating the atmosphere. The one exception was a long table situated in the middle of the room, looking so out of place that Greene was sure it had been brought out specifically for the meeting. The table had eight chairs, two at each head and three lined up on either side. It was there that the only five occupants of the restaurant, other than the waiter wearing a white apron and a thick mustache, sat. Anastasia, Costello, and Profaci sat on the side of the table closest to the wall; Lucchese and Bonanno on the other side with their backs facing the door.

They all stopped eating, their plates full of various kinds of pasta covered in sauce whose aroma wafted through the room, Anastasia being the only exception, having chosen the veal, wine glasses filled to varying degrees. Greene placed his hat on the hook by the door next to the others, strode to the table, but paused as he considered the empty chair next to Bonanno. Instead of sitting beside the mobster, Greene instead pulled out the chair at the head of the table.

"Still an arrogant ass I see," Bonanno mumbled, the others chuckling lightly.

"Just enjoy being able to look all of you in the face at the same time," Greene said, smiling insincerely. Bonanno shook his head.

The waiter came up behind Greene and the Irishman turned to look at him, "Il vostro ordine signore?"

Greene turned back to the other mobsters. "Whose place is this?"

Anastasia raised his hand, not bothering to look up from his plate. "This is a high class joint. I wanted it to be authentic."

Greene snorted. "You don't see my servers speaking Gaelic down at the Celtic Club."

"I said _high class. _You're hole in the ground doesn't count," Anastasia replied.

Beside him Costello snickered. "You don't even know Gaelic. Thought all you potato eaters spoke was bastardized English."

Green stared down Costello and spoke his next words slowly. "Tá tú saill, agus tá tú gnéas le do mháthair."

"I stand corrected," Costello said, lifting his wine glass at Greene.

_If only you knew what I just called you, _the Irishman thought. He returned his attention to the waiter. "Just a salad."

Anastasia looked up from his plate, genuinely looking offended. "Is my food not good enough for you?"

"I'm a vegetarian," Greene replied flatly.

Anastasia snorted in disbelief. "Since when?"

"I've been one for the past ten years. If you're informants were any good you would know that already."

Anastasia scowled. He had not earned his nickname 'The Executioner' for nothing, and out of all the men at the table had the most reason to hate him, Anastasia taking it as a personal insult that the Irishman was still alive. Then again, Greene had personally killed eight of the assassins Anastasia had sent to whack him. He stabbed at his veal forcefully. "A man is not a man if he doesn't eat meat."

"Maybe," Greene agreed. "But I guarantee it means I will live longer than you."

The door to the restaurant opened again, and although no iconic gust of wind blew through to usher in the newcomer, a gust of another sort did manage to brush past the necks of the six crime bosses seated at the long table. Once more they paused, the Irishman having to turn around in his chair to look at the black man who had just stepped through the door, an eerie silence even more quiet than the one that had greeted Greene settling in.

Johnson surveyed the room as he took off his hat, placing it on an empty coat rack opposite the one that the others had been using, even though there were still plenty of hooks available. He did not even bother to consider sitting at the empty chair beside Bonanno, instead sitting at one of the round tables, the chair creaking as he eased himself into it. The other man turned around, ignoring him, satisfied that although Johnson was by the good graces of North Central technically on equal standing with the other bosses, that the social status quo had been upheld. Johnson reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a cigar, cut off the end, and lit it with a match, twin trails of smoke leaving his nostrils.

All of this was just fine with Johnson. As crazy as it may sound being on the bottom rung of society had its advantages, one being that he was always underestimated by his competition, and even though all seven bosses' were at peace with disputes settled cordially, they still competed with each other financially. They were not communists after all. Leave that to the Reds. It was true that when North Central had brokered the peace between Greene and the Five Families (Johnson himself had remained neutral as much as he could, although he had done business with both sides, turning a sizable profit as a result) that the Harlem Syndicate was given a smaller piece of the pie than the others, but it was still a much larger piece than what either Greene or the mafia would have been willing to give him under any circumstances. Greene had been his advocate during the negotiations, and although Johnson knew it was primarily because the Irishman wanted to get under the Italians' skin, there was also another motivation behind it.

Respect. The kind of respect that only one underdog can give to another. Daniel John Greene did not like Johnson in the traditional sense, could not because of his race, but he respected him.

Johnson, for his part, found that he did in fact like Greene. He did not trust him, not by a long shot, but he liked him.

Perhaps in another time, in another world, Greene and Johnson could have been friends, but with the social mores of the 50's silent respect was all either could hope to achieve.

There was another advantage that Johnson's race and the prevailing air of segregation afforded him. He could be easily ignored, forgotten about, and although some might find this insulting, Johnson found it useful. If somebody forgot you were there entirely they were more likely to say things they otherwise would not, and that was an advantage Johnson exploited maliciously. So he sat, quiet, smoking his cigar and listening as the conversation resumed.

"So Danny how are things on the waterfront?" It was Profaci who said this. He was the only one who called Greene by his first name, in a tone that a father would use with his son, and it was that tone that Greene hated.

Greene waited to respond as the waiter brought him his Caesar salad. The server walked away, passing Johnson and pretending that he was not there. As Greene stabbed a piece of lettuce using the wrong fork he spoke. "Been having trouble with that priest again lately. Putting the wrong ideas in the heads of some of the workers."

"You've been having trouble with him for years," Anastasia sneered. "And he's still alive."

"I'm not killing a priest," Greene said flatly.

"Then I will."

Greene stared Anastasia down, neither man blinking. "Not in my territory, unless you've forgotten about the last time you all tried to stick your noses into by business?"

Anastasia's cheeks burned a fierce red, but he did not respond, instead attacking his veal with more ferocity than usual.

Returning to his salad Greene asked to no one in particular, "So how's Vegas?" That had been the way things were divided up. The mafia had full control of Las Vegas, Greene had undisputed control over Hell's Kitchen and had gained some territory in Boston, Harlem was to remain free of outside influence, Greene was given complete control of the NYPD although he had to extend his protection to the Five Families and Johnson, and the unions were divided evenly. There was a catch though, as the Irishman had negotiated that both he and Johnson would have a disproportionate control of the distribution of narcotics. The Italians had let this go, the unions and gambling being where the most money came from, but Greene had seen the writing on the wall. Narcotics were the future.

Lucchese answered him. "Went down there this past week. Met up with that English prick in the FBI."

"He's not English - he's Scottish," Profaci said. "That I'm sure of."

"Scottish then," Lucchese said although he sounded less than convinced. He looked around the table at the others. "I tell you, the nerve of that guy. Get to my hotel after a five hour flight, jet lagged all to hell, get to my room on the top floor and Smith is waiting there for me with that Polock he's been dragging around with him."

"What's his name again?" Anastasia asked mildly.

"Captain…" Lucchese began, drumming his fingers on the table as he tried to remember. "Kowalski. Captain Frederic Kowalski. Navy guy. Think he was in Korea and the Pacific by the look of him."

Greene kept silent. That the United States Government and the mob had been in collusion with one another since the beginning of World War II was a dirty secret. You could call the seven men in that room criminals, liars, thieves, and murderers; but you could never say that they were not patriots. American by choice and Irish by the grace of God as Greene would have put it. They had helped to set up spy networks in Italy, insured the success of the invasion of Sicily, and had ratted out German, Italian, and Japanese nationals on the homefront so that they could be sent to internment camps. They were patriots of the criminal variety, and even with the war over they still had a role to play, these men hating communism as much as they hated fascism, both political philosophies being far too tough on crime for their own liking.

But Greene knew that every last one of them was fooled. Smith was not part of the FBI, although he sometimes claimed that he was. Not the FBI, the CIA, the State Department, the Army, the Navy, the Air Force, the Marines, the Secret Service, and not even the fucking IRS. He had once asked his brother what his agency was, not really expecting an answer, but Smith had given him one. It was cryptic, but it was one of the few times the Irishman had ever been chilled not just to the bone, but right down to the marrow.

"Us?" Smith had said to him. "We don't exist. We are a myth, a rumor. We are the product of some paranoid soul's over active imagination. We are everywhere and nowhere. We are the others, the men behind the curtain, the ones who see the world for what it is and do our best to make sure others can't. We are nothing more than phantoms. We are the men in black."

_Jesus Christ Tom, _Greene had thought. _What the hell have you gotten yourself into?_

The door to the kitchen swung open, and for the third time that evening the conversation stopped, this time never to resume. In walked a man with a hairline mustache, his clothes that of what popular culture believes real gangsters in the 30's and 40's dressed like, and man plucked stair out of a noir film. His skin was sallow, and he had a fedora placed firmly on his head, strategically covering his forehead.

The sallow thing walked to the table, eyes scanning each face as he dug into his pocket. He dug out a coin the size of a half dollar and slammed it on the table, removing his hand so that all could see. Scratched into the surface of the coin as if by a fingernail made of steel was the sigul of an all seeing lidless eye. All seven men stood up slowly, chairs stretching on the floor as they slid them back. The sallow thing looked at each Italian in turn. "La Cosa Nostra." He gazed at Greene, his eyes lingering. "The White Hand." He leaned over to the right so that he could look at Johnson. "And the Harlem Syndicate." He pulled out his own chair with a single pale hand, and once he sat the others took their seats as well, Johnson plugging the cigar back into his mouth.

"Gentlemen," he said. "Let's begin."


	35. Chapter 35: Coup D'etat

Chapter 35: Coup D'état

Jack burst into his room like a whirlwind, much in the same way as he entered every room, his near inexhaustible amount of energy fueling his equally inexhaustible need for stimulation. Jake was home for the night, and that was good. It would be better if John was there as well of course. With his mother included the three of them combined might be able to pose an actual challenge in whatever game he decided he wanted to play. He would pick a board game of his choosing, preferably one based more on strategy than chance, and he would walk out into the living room with it in hand doing his best impression of a lost puppy and his mother's heart would predictably melt. Jake would cock an eyebrow like he always did, as if to say _I know full well what you're doing kid, no matter how cute you try to look, _but of course he would agree to play. And John, well he would just give that strange half smile of his that looked more like amusement than anything else, and say nothing as he watched the board being set up.

But right now it was only Jake and his mother, but Jack was perfectly willing to take what he could get. Perhaps tonight would be an off night for him and Jack would come close to losing. Not actually losing mind you, just come close. It was no fun to win by a landslide, but it was no fun to lose either. But to win by the skin of your teeth? Now that was exciting.

He got on all fours as he examined the area underneath his bed, where his games and a few forgotten crumbs lay hidden. There were comic books piled under there as well. Captain America, Batman, Superman, Captain Marvel, and a whole host of others, all first editions and all still sealed in the plastic packaging that they came in just as Jake had instructed him.

When they had gone through the comic book store, this had been months ago, Jake had nearly thrown a whole stack of them at Jack. From anybody else's perspective Jake's decision on what comic books to buy would have seemed random, but Jack had a different theory. There was a method to Jake's madness; he just was not sure what it was yet.

"These aren't for reading," Jake had told him. "You understand why right?"

Jack had shaken his head. "No not really. What's the point in buying them if I can't read them?"

"Because," Jake replied, pulling out a comic from near the back of the pile which was titled 'Detective Comics #27' and considering it carefully. "Some of these things might be worth a bit of money someday."

Jack would have scratched his head had it not been for the stack of comics already in his arms. "Ummm I don't really see why anybody would pay more than fifteen cents for these things."

Jake smiled. "Neither do I, but just trust me on this," he said as he placed the newest selected purchase on top of the stack that was already dangerously close to blocking Jack's line of sight.

Jack, still confused, asked, "But how do you know which ones will be valuable or not?"

"I just do," Jake had said, and that had been the end of the conversation despite Jack's continued queries.

Now as he continued to stare underneath the bed, ignoring the comics in favor of the games, a small black spider eased itself down on a string of web from somewhere up above, landing on Jack's bare hand. The spider positioned itself on the child's bare skin, reared its small but ferocious fangs back, and was then promptly squashed by Jack. He flicked the spider's corpse off of his finger and looked up to see where it had come from, lifting himself off of his hands and sitting back on his knees. It was then that he saw it.

It was a book sitting neatly on his bed, almost perfectly in the middle of it, wrapped lovingly in black leather binding. Intrigued Jack picked it up, turning it over to read the title.

The Death of King Arthur

Or

The Romance of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table

By: Sir Thomas Mallory

Edited by: A.W. Pollard

Illustrated by: Arthur Rackham

Jack flipped the book over, saw no illustration on the back, and then opened it up to the first page. What caught his eye first was a name written in the top left hand corner on the blank page before the table of contents began in bright crimson ink.

Selena Padick

This did not concern Jack much. He did not know anyone named Selena, but when Cortana bought him books, which she did nearly by the truck load in an effort to keep up with his expanding need for intellectual stimulation, they were usually used. Finding names of old owners on books that his mother had bought was not out of the ordinary.

With all thoughts on the impending board game forgotten, Jack climbed into bed, his head propped up against the pillows, and began to read.

…

_Cannon fodder_, Johnson thought as he listened to the sallow thing speak. He bit into his cigar, smoke billowing out of his mouth like a chimney. _We're just cannon fodder to them. _

He had seen this kind of mentality before during the Great War, back when he had been known as Sergeant Johnson. He had witnessed firsthand the horrors this kind of thinking could produce. Watching as shattered French regiments, whittled down to under company strength, limped away from the front lines with blank unseeing stares as he and the rest of the 93rd Colored Infantry Division marched towards the trenches to provide fresh meat for the grinder. He had smelled the stench of rotting death as it wafted over no man's land, so many bodies covering such a small area of land that you could hardly dig without unearthing some piece of human remains. The remains of soldiers whose commanders seemed to only know one strategy, throw bodies at the Germans until they eventually ran at of bullets.

He had seen it before, and he had seen it now.

His anger induced flash of memories halted when Profaci spoke up. "How exactly do you expect us to kill him? We've shot him, we've blown him up. One of my boys even used a Molotov cocktail to set him on fire, and the thing just cut him in half with some blue glowing blade. He just won't die."

"Reminds me of someone I know," Greene said thoughtfully, earning agitated stares from the other bosses as a result.

The sallow thing opened his mouth to speak, when Anastasia interrupted him. "The solution is rather obvious." He had finished his meal and was now calmly wiping his mouth with a napkin. "We know that this man has grown rather attached to the Toren family. Greene has watched them for years under your orders. We know their habits like the back of our hands by now. What we do is capture them and make this man come to us. Cortana Toren would even be able to provide some recreation for the men, and we all know how badly they need it."

The sallow thing gave a deep sigh, resting his elbows on the table and folding his hands together. "You would not be able to get within a hundred yards of Cortana or her son without walking into a slaughter, and even if you did you severely underestimate just how dangerous she is."

"She's just a woman…"

"Furthermore," the sallow thing continued, raising his voice. "You know full well that it is the desire of my employer, S. Padick, that both she and her son remained untouched."

Costello frowned. "You have never given us a reason why."

"S. Padick wishes to punish Cortana in a different way over an offense given long ago," the sallow thing said with a shrug. "As for her son, our reason as to why we want him kept alive is confidential."

"My ass," Greene muttered, this time earning a glare from the sallow thing.

The sallow thing continued calmly, keeping his gaze on Greene. "However, Officer John Chambers is expendable."

Greene saw the implication in the man's words and sat us straighter in the chair. "When?"

"Tonight."

Greene frowned. "You can't expect to organize a hit in a matter of hours. Not against a man like him."

"We don't," the sallow thing said, a smile creeping its way onto his face, revealing teeth so yellow that they were almost orange. "The order was already given a week ago. One of our informants in the NYPD is carrying it out. Someone Officer Chambers trusts."

The Irishman felt the flames of internal anger rise. "Hell's Kitchen is my territory and the NYPD is under my jurisdiction. Nobody, including North Central, pokes their noses in my business without my say so. Those were the terms I agreed to."

"The terms are what we say they are," the sallow thing said, his smile widening. "Besides, we felt it best to keep you out of the loop until the last minute. I'm sure you know why."

Greene felt all eyes go to him and the flames flickering inside him cooled. _He knows. Somehow he knows. _

Johnson waited for Greene's reaction, wondering if the sallow thing was saying what he thought he was saying. What he saw Greene do next confirmed the thought. The Irishman slipped a hand underneath the table, and tapped his chair three times.

Johnson dropped his cigar into the ashtray. _You backstabbing son of a bitch. _

A small blue orb flew through the air, launched like a baseball pitch from somewhere behind Johnson's left shoulder. It landed squarely on the sallow thing's chest. The man looked down at the plasma grenade, eyes bulging. He stood up, toppling his chair over, tearing at his shirt like a mad man as he attempted to pull the grenade off.

Greene ducked underneath the table, pulling up his right pants leg and yanking at the tape which had been used to strap a .38 revolver to his leg.

Johnson tipped his own table over, using it for cover. The sallow thing let out a loud shriek, like a pig whose throat is about to be cut at the slaughter house, and the grenade exploded.

…

Anastasia dropped to the floor and felt a body fall on top of him, the man's face so badly burned by the plasma that he could not recognize him. He pushed him off, his ears ringing, vision moving in and out, objects being distorted to such an extent that he felt like he was trapped in one of the fun houses on Coney Island. He heard several quick pops and Anastasia shut his eyes forcefully, willing his vision to return to normal. When he opened them the distortion was gone, but had been replaced by the black bottomless pit coming from the muzzle of a revolver.

The Irishman smiled, his grin nearly demonic. "Told you I'd outlive you," and with that he squeezed the trigger. The slug entered Anastasia's head and blew out the back of his skull, painting a red mosaic on the floor behind him.

Several more bullets ripped through the air, hitting the legs of the table and showering splinters on top of him. Greene moved himself into a low crouch behind one of the chairs, peering out from beneath the table. Seeing that the round table Johnson had been sitting at was turned over, he fired two rounds at it.

The bullets hit the table, leaving two pin prick like holes a few inches over Johnson's head. Johnson sank closer to the floor, holding his Colt pistol close to him. He bellowed, "Greene!"

From behind the overturned table he heard the Irishman's voice. "Nothing personal, Johnson. It's just business."

"Bullshit!" Johnson roared back. "You always were a power hungry mother fucker. Never could leave well enough alone."

"Maybe," Greene admitted. "But you know that you were the only one out of all these pricks that I could actually stand Avery."

"Makes me feel real sentimental," Johnson said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He turned his head, looking out the shattered window. There were brief flashes of gunfire, screams coming from the men that had been designated to guard the seven heads during the meeting, and the occasional glimpse of a green behemoth wading chest deep through the massacre. Two Plymouths pulled up, their windows rolled down, and Johnson saw Greene's men stick their heads out, Thomson sub machine guns in their hands, unleashing a hail of bullets that ripped through flesh and bone.

Johnson knew that it was unlikely he would make it out of this alive, the rear exit blocked by Greene and undoubtedly guarded by more than a few of his men just waiting for someone to try and escape. But if he was going to die, he was going to take a few of them with him, and he had his mind on one man in particular.

"Greene," Johnson shouted. "When I get a hold of you I'm going to rip out your intestines and strangle you to death with them."

"Always were one hell of a wordsmith," Greene said. "Give me your best shot."

"Alright," Johnson said, digging into one of his pockets and pulling out a grenade, what he personally called his insurance policy. "If that's how you want it." He pulled the pin and tossed it over the table.


	36. Chapter 36: Kin Slaying

Chapter 36: Kin Slaying

It was an event that would come to be known as the August 13th massacre, or in the more imaginative circles as the Guns of August. The massacre itself only lasted a handful of minutes at the most, and when it was over twenty bodies would lay dead in the street or in the restaurant itself, their bodies filled with bullets that were both familiar to forensic investigators, and those that simply bewildered them. While many would come to suspect that Danny Greene had orchestrated the killings, he would never be arrested and no public official would ever name him as a suspect.

What was most important about this day was that it marked the end of the most violent and bloody mob war New York had ever seen. Even more devastating than the Castellammarese War in the early thirties, or the Danny Greene War in the late thirties. The result of its conclusion would be the restructuring of organized crime, the collapse of the Italian Commission, and the complete reversal in the dominance of the Italian mafia.

But all of that will become mere backdrop from here on out, a reference point to remind us of which reality the ka-tet is now in, much like the blue dollar bills that are used as currency. From this war an urban myth takes root in the zeitgeist, that of a green armored giant who roams the streets of Manhattan. A man who cannot die. There will be several more supposed sightings of him as the years progress. People claiming to see him on a roof top or the occasional senile old woman who claims that he saved her from being mugged. Even a few documentaries will be made and his actual existence will be debated, until eventually he is relegated to the same classification as the Mothman, Big Foot, and the New Jersey Devil. He will be a myth, nothing more, and most will claim that he was never more than the product of an overactive imagination.

But we, we know the truth. We know that he was there, and in some ways we were there also. We were there to witness John choose between family, and the twim of a man who had been as a brother to him. We shall see all.

…

The grenade shook the building with a tremulous roar as it exploded, the table which Greene had been hiding under flying apart as if it had been nothing more than a loose bundle of twigs, plaster falling from the ceiling as fine white powder, sprinkling onto Johnson's black hair giving it a salt and pepper appearance. The springs in Johnson's muscles uncoiled the moment after the blast, and he ran. It was perhaps twenty feet from where he was to the door, and bullets crashed through what remained of the glass as the men with the Tommy guns adjusted their fire towards him. He shot three times with his Colt and managed to hit one of the gunners in the neck. The gunner was not dead, but was bleeding profusely and was perhaps mortally wounded. He did have enough breath in him to yell at the driver, and the Plymouth he was in sped off, the other following in hot pursuit.

Johnson grinned even as he sprinted. The two most immediate threats had fled, and he saw no sight of the green behemoth. His mind was just beginning to entertain the notion that he just might get out of this mess alive, when a shotgun along with the gauntleted hands that wielded it appeared out of thin air right at the doorway.

The shotgun bellowed, breathing fire and lead like an enraged dragon, piercing Johnson's chest and hurling him backwards onto the floor.

Sweat flooded into his eyes, causing them to sting, and strangely this irritation was more pressing to him then the spray of rounds from the single shot gun shell that had just missed his heart. A sensation in his right hand told him that he was still holding his gun, and Johnson attempted to raise it, only to have his hand crushed by an armored boot.

Avery Junior Johnson looked up and saw his own dying reflection in the orange visor, its gaze as blank and pitiless as the desert sun. It was the very definition of pragmatic brutality.

John pumped another round into the shotgun, leveled the barrel at Johnson's head, and fired.

…

Greene groaned as he pushed what had used to be the table top off of him, a shard of what had once been a table leg digging into his bag like a dull dagger. As he stood up he brushed the plaster and rouge splinters off of his clothes. One of the splinters dug into his thumb as he performed the act and drew blood, a small trickle running down and beading up at the base of his knuckle before dripping off of him like a tear drop and splashing onto the floor to mingle with the blood of the other bosses. Upon seeing that he was otherwise uninjured after a brief self inspection the Irishman stood up straighter, stretching out his back and hearing the dry pops of exploding popcorn kernels as he joints cracked.

_Good to see my luck is still holding out, _he thought. He looked over at the Spartan who was slowly putting the shotgun on his back, the weapon being held there by no visible mechanism. Greene supposed it was magnets. He could not help but be impressed at how intimidating the Spartan looked, and how unreadable he was, the Master Chief staring down at the body of what had once been Avery Johnson.

Greene strode over to him. "Are you going to take a picture?"

John did not move, did not so much as twitch, but even his neutral voice could not fully hide the anguish lying underneath. "I knew him."

"Yeah?" Greene said. He bent down and began to rummage through one of Johnson's shirt pockets, tossing several ruined and blood stained cigars over his back. He managed to find one that was mostly intact and lit it with his own lighter, puffing out clouds of ashy smoke as John clenched his fists beside him. "From where?"

"Another life," John said with a tone of finality.

Greene shrugged his shoulders. "Dead now. Bit of a shame though. For a nigger he wasn't that bad."

John clenched his fists tighter, his jaw becoming so rigid that it threatened to shatter like glass.

"Now if you don't mind," Greene continued, pulling the cigar out of his mouth. "I'd like to get working on my alibi."

John's hand reached towards his hip, pulled out his pistol, and pointed it at Greene. "Arm or leg?"

Greene raised an eyebrow. "Surprise me."

John squeezed the trigger, and round going through Greene's left arm, the man stumbling backwards and grimacing in pain, but still managing to hold onto the cigar, the smoke now wrapping around his face with a gentle caress. John fired again, this time shattering Greene's right knee cap, and the Irishman toppled over.

"Surprise," John said dryly and without remorse.

Greene cursed as he put pressure on his leg with his right arm. "If I knew you had a sense of humor I wouldn't have given you the option," he said through gritted teeth, but as he looked up he saw that the Master Chief had left as swiftly as a thief in the night. "Hell," Greene said. "I think I might be starting to like him."

…

Jake grunted as he threw the two garbage bags into the empty dumpster and heard a metallic thud as the garbage hit the rusted out bottom. If he listened closely, and he was, Jake could hear the soft pitter patter of paws as a rat descended upon the bags, ready to gorge itself on the nightly feast. He was about to turn around and was mentally preparing himself for the long climb back up to his floor, both the garbage shoot and the elevators now out of order, when he stopped.

Even if he had not heard the heavy breathing of the man behind him, he still would have surely heard the heavy footsteps, and since he was able to hear both sounds Jake was able to guess as to who the man was. Slowly he reached for his service revolver which was tucked into his belt, when a familiar voice called out to him.

"Don't try it kid." Mahone raised his own revolver at Jake's back. "Turn around. Hands on your head," he said slowly.

Jake placed both hands on the back of his head and turned just as he was instructed. "Why didn't you just shoot me while my back was turned."

"Because," Mahone said with a sigh. "You deserve better than that." Even in the dark alleyway Jake could still see the regret in his partners eyes. "You're a good kid Jake. Would have made one hell of a cop."

"Then why are you doing this?" Jake said, and the calm in his voice was enough to unnerve Mahone, although not for long.

Mahone straightened up, steadying his aim. "I got my own kids, and this close to retiring…" He sighed again, but his gaze remained steady. "You made too much noise. If you had just let things go they would have left you alone."

Jake shook his head slowly. "They would have never left us alone."

"Maybe," his former partner said. "But you would have had a better chance than you do right now." He cocked the hammer back with his thumb. "Sorry kid."

Mahone never saw Jake move, the gunslinger's hands moving from on top of his head and pulling out his revolver before Mahone could even blink. Jake fired and the bullet struck Mahone's gun sending it flying out of his hand and causing pain to flare up in the fingers that were holding it. Mahone grabbed his hand and bent over, looking up at Jake. _He can't be that fast. No one is that fast._ Jake pointed the gun at Mahone's head and the man flinched.

The gunslinger considered his former partner for a moment, and then put his revolver back into his belt. "I knew the whole time," he said somewhat apologetically. "The first thing I did after Cortana was attacked was read your mind. I knew, but I wanted to give you a chance to do the right thing. I liked you." Mahone opened his eyes again, giving Jake a confused look. "But you proved me wrong," Jake continued, his expression now stern. "You have forgotten the face of your father." He breathed heavily, the only outward sign of the anger and betrayal he was feeling. "I'm not going to kill you." Jake motioned with his head at the darkness behind Mahone. "But I can't speak for him."

An armored hand clamped down on Mahone's shoulder, its grip filled with a rage that only a father can feel when someone has attempted to hurt their son. Mahone began to scream, his cries for help going unheeded as John pulled him back into the darkness.

9:25 A.M., August 14th 1952 (Gregorian Calendar) Residency of Cortana Toren, Hell's Kitchen, New York, New York

Cortana picked up the book lying on the floor of Jack's bedroom, reminding herself to scold Jack about not keeping his room clean. The thought left her, however, when she noticed the title was 'The Romance of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table'. She did not remember buying him this book, although it was equally possible that Jake might have. Cortana turned the book over to look at the last page Jack had been reading, frowning at Jack's habit of folding the pages over to mark his place. Her eyes immediately fell to the illustration on the page.

It was a picture of two men clad in dark medieval armor dueling each other on top of a mound of corpses. The fallen knights that were both underneath them and surrounding them were enveloped in shadows, their wounded horses craning their necks to look up at the merciless cloud covered sky as they lay bleeding to death, broken shields and swords littering the blood soaked ground, while all about them reeled shadows of indignant birds. The still living man on the left was holding a lance, and had pierced his opponent through the abdomen. The other now mortally wounded knight continued to charge him, his armored boots digging into the ground as he push forward, the sword Excalibur swung high over his head as he prepared to hack into his enemy. Cortana read the caption.

HOW MORDRED WAS SLAIN BY ARTHUR, AND HOW BY HIM ARTHUR WAS HURT TO DEATH

…

The newspaper proclaimed with bold headlines the details of the bloody massacre that had occurred the night before. The paper itself was thin, consisting of only a few pages, the ink so fresh that it had been smeared by the hands of both the paperboy who had delivered it, and John who had bought it. The article itself mostly contained details of the mob war that had been waged over the past month, filler to disguise the minimum amount of information the reporters had to work with. If John had been an imaginative man he could have easily seen the author of this article grudgingly putting words to paper after being woken up by a phone call in the middle of the night, burning through cups of coffee as he rushed to make sure that the newspaper he worked for would be the first to report on the incident.

John was not concerned about that, had hardly even read the article. He focused instead on the picture of Johnson underneath the headline, a small portrait compared to the enlarged photos of the other five bosses. If the Master Chief had flipped the paper over he would have seen a picture of Danny Greene, the caption proclaiming him to be the only survivor. If the Spartan had bothered to buy any more papers in the days that followed, he might have read several letters to the editor that insisted a giant green alien, or perhaps a batman wannabe, had been present at the shootout.

The Master Chief did not care. All that mattered to him was Johnson's face, and the memory of him lying on the floor of the control room on the Halo above the Ark, placing Cortana's chip in his hands and telling John to never let her go. John tried to remind himself that the man he had encountered last night had not been _his_ Johnson, but it did little to help.

He knew now that things would likely quiet down. That Greene, being the only survivor, would work to consolidate his power. The Irishman believed that once the bosses were dead the other mafia members, from the underbosses, to the caporegimes, to the soldiers, and right on down to the associates would become convinced that North Central could no longer guarantee their safety, and that they out of fear would go to Greene. Even though the Irishman was responsible for the attack, and obviously so, he was also the only thing standing between order and anarchy, and he would use that to his advantage. At least that was what Greene had told John, and the Chief believed him.

Johnson could not have done that, even if he could have been convinced to go against North Central. It was this simple horrible fact, the racially motivated reason as to why Johnson had to be killed, that made John look inwardly at himself with disgust.

Cortana entered the room quietly, and John heard a loud thunk as she threw something heavy into the trash. She came to him with soft footsteps, and he felt a hand against his cheek. John did not look at her, but did not resist as she put her arms around him, and the Master Chief laid his head against her chest.

Cortana kissed the top of his head, moving her fingers along his back in small circles, willing his mind to break free of the thoughts that were drowning him.

A knock on the door destroyed the moment. As John tried to get up to answer it Cortana pushed him down by the shoulders. "I'll get it," she said softly. Cortana walked to the door, preparing a sly remark to Jake and Jack who had gone up to the roof to play basketball, as to why they had forgotten their key. However, instead of being greeted by Jake's sky blue eyes or Jack's bombardier ones, she was instead greeted by a pair of hazel ones.

"Ma'am," Agent 1588 said to her. He nodded towards John who had stood up from the couch. "Master Chief, I apologize for us being late. The Tet Corporation is here to assist."


	37. Chapter 37: Legends Never Die

Chapter 37: Legends Never Die

_Kyle tore down the hillside, a child of no more than eleven summers, wind rushing through his dirty blonde hair, his friends, Lisa and Sam which was short for Samson given that his mother belonged to the Cult of the Man Jesus, running down after him hot on his heels. Still at a full gallop Kyle pointed at an object in the distance next to what had once been a great road of the Old People and later rebuilt by Arthur Eld himself, made of black stone which soaked up the heat of the sun like a sponge. The children were not aware of the word asphalt, and if you had said it to them they would have thought you were speaking gibberish. _

_ Kyle came to the object, hands on his knees while he tried to catch his breath. "Told you it was here!"_

_ "No so loud," Lisa pleaded in a whisper. They were not allowed to go this far towards the city which could be seen across the flat plain perhaps a dozen wheels away, its tall sky scrapers reaching up like daggers of glass and steel. It was a city of the dead. A forbidden place. Once all those that had lived there had been struck down by the gods themselves who had used a white poisonous cloud to kill them all, or least that was what the old stories said. Now it had slowly been repopulated by harriers and brigands looking to mine the city for its vast resources of ancient technology. Devil's work as Sam's mother might have put it, and she did quite often. _

_ Sam silently agreed with Lisa's request to be silent, by Kyle merely shook his head, grinning. "Were too far away for anybody to hear us." He approached the plane, marveling at the wide sweeping wings and the metal propeller which was attached to the nose of the plane. What appeared to be machine guns, mere rusting hulks of their former selves, where attached to the underside of both wings, and Kyle thoughtfully put his finger in the muzzle of one of them. "I told you that the Old People could fly."_

_ "They were fairy tales," Sam argued. _

_ Kyle shook his head. "Next you'll be telling me you don't think that the Ka-Tet of the Nineteen was real."_

_ "They weren't," Sam huffed. "They're just stories for little kids."_

_ "Like you," Lisa said giggling. Sam glared at her._

_ Kyle ignored Sam's misgiving and looked up into the cockpit, his eyes wondering in the peculiar mixture of fear and wonder. "Look at this."_

_ Sam and Lisa moved to stand beside him, similar looks also appearing on their faces. Inside the cockpit was the bleach white skeleton of a giant, a man who must have been at least seven feet tall, with bones thicker than that of an oxen, and even though he was long dead the children could almost feel the strength that the man had once possessed. _

_ "Thus fell Lord Perth," Sam muttered. "And the countryside did shake with thunder."_

_ "Shhhh," Lisa said. "That story is bad luck."_

_ Sam shrugged his shoulders, "No such thing as luck, and besides that is only suppose to be true for harriers."_

_ "Still," Lisa said, pouting. She returned her attention to the skeleton. "He was as big as the Spartan wasn't he?"_

_ "Nah," Kyle said, shaking his head vigorously. "The Spartan was ten feet tall. This guy is short compared to him."_

_ Lisa frowned. "Well maybe this man was a Spartan. I mean, there were suppose to be more of them in other worlds."_

_ "All dead, just like the gunslingers. Don't you know anything?"_

_ Lisa stuck her tongue out angrily. "You don't have to be right all the time."_

_ "Not my fault that I am," Kyle retorted. "Say Sam who is your favorite in the ka-tet?"_

_ "I don't like those stories," Sam said. "They're no fun. Everything bad always happens to them. No happy endings."_

_ "Yeah," Lisa agreed. "But my momma told me they were supposed to teach you a lesson. Like never anger the gods. That's why the Warrior was killed."_

_ Kyle shook his head. "No it was because of the prophesy." He cleared his throat and began to recite. "She who ends the Line of Eld shall conceive a child of incest with her brother, and this child shall be marked, by his red heel shall you know him. It is she who will take the last breath of the Warrior."_

_ Lisa furrowed her brow. "But they weren't brother and sister."_

_ "Yes they were," Kyle insisted. "They had the same mother."_

_ "Oh," Lisa said, putting a hand on her chin. "Momma never told me that part. She told me that the Intellect during her palaver with Maerlyn…"_

_ "Walter," Sam said, looking upward towards the top of the plane. "It was Walter, not Maerlyn."_

_ "Walter," Lisa repeated. "Anyway during the palaver the Intellect said that the Spartan was above ka, and so the gods punished her for her arrogance and struck the Warrior down dead." Her hand left her chin and Lisa's voice became solemn. "No one can defy ka."_

_ "Doesn't make sense though," Sam said. "I thought that the Intellect was a goddess who took mortal form because she fell in love with the Spartan."_

_ Lisa shrugged, "Maybe that was part of the reason the gods punished her. Mortals shouldn't mix with immortals. That's what momma says."_

_ "You're both wrong," Kyle insisted. "She was a computer. Like the ones they have in the city, and she became human after she fell in love with the Spartan. The Gunslinger fell in love with her too, and so did the Boy, but while she loved all of the ka-tet her heart belonged to the Spartan."_

_ "Which was part of her punishment," Lisa continued where Kyle presumably was leaving off. "Ka hardened her heart so that she could only love him, even after he died. They are cursed to always be separated from one another but neither can give their heart to another person. It's all part of what the gods will." _

_ Kyle rolled his eyes. "It told you it was the prophesy, not the gods. The gods don't give a damn about humans anyway. They strike us down for the fun of it." _

_ "Diana cares," Lisa responded. "And Gan. Oh and Bessa too."_

_ "Okay three," Kyle said, holding up his fingers._

_ "The Man Jesus," Sam added. _

_ Kyle sighed and added another finger to his count. "Okay four. Four out of how many?"_

_ "Well I never said the gods were fair," Lisa said. She looked up at the machine guns mounted on the wings. "Is it true that the gunslinger could shoot as fast as one of those?"_

_ "Mayhap," Kyle said shrugging. "He was faster than the Spartan, and the Spartan was almost as fast as the god Raf." He turned to the others, "Who do you think would have won in a fight?"_

_ "The Gunslinger," Sam said almost immediately. "He had Excalibur, and Excalibur beats everything."_

_ "I don't think so," said Lisa doubtfully. "They say the Spartan was strong enough to cause earthquakes by punching the ground. Roland Deschain was fast, but the Master Chief was a whole lot stronger, and he had his armor."_

_ "Have to agree," Kyle said. "The Master Chief was a bit like Lord Perth though. So strong yet he was killed by a low level soldier."_

_ Lisa covered her ears and whined, "I told you not to say that Kyle."_

_ Kyle frowned, but kept his mouth shut._

_ "I want to climb it," Sam said suddenly, and both children looked at him as if he had just declared he was setting off on pilgrimage to The Dark Tower itself. _

_ "Why do you want to do that?" Kyle asked, genuinely curious. As far as he was concerned there was nothing on top of the airplane that they could not see just as well from where they were standing._

_ Sam shrugged. "Don't know." He looked at Kyle, "Give me a boost." Kyle hesitated a few moments, then bent down on one knee and laced his fingers together. Sam put his foot into the laced fingers, and was immediately boosted up, his small hands gripping tightly onto the wing. After some struggle Sam pushed himself the rest of the way up. The wing groaned angrily, as if the plane was a wounded beast preparing to bite at the person who had dared to approach it, and for a moment both Lisa and Kyle thought it would come crashing down on their heads. It did not, and Sam carefully stood up, looking down. "There's a sigul," he said, smiling as a boy his age does when a sliver of intuition is given affirmation. _

_ "What sigul?" Lisa asked, covering her eyes with her hand in an effort to block out the punishing rays of the sun overhead. _

_ Sam continued to look at the black swastika beneath his feet. "Not-sees"_

_ "Not-sees?" Kyle asked. "What is a Not-see?"_

_ "Not completely sure," Sam said. "But my dad told me about them. They were at war with the Americans long ago."_

_ "What's an American?" this time it was Lisa who asked the question._

_ "Don't know that either," Sam said. "I think they were an empire, or something like that."_

_ Kyle, his thoughts still a few steps behind the other two, asked, "Where they called the Not-sees because they didn't have any eyes?"_

_ "Mayhap. I don't know. My dad said that they were in a book his grandpa had. They came from the same where and when that Jake Chambers was from."_

_ Kyle frowned. "I thought you didn't believe in the ka-tet."_

_ "I don't," Sam assured him. He was just about to contemplate how to get down from his lofty perch, when a sudden blast ripped through the air. All three children looked around, ears straining, when the horn, or perhaps a trumpet sounded again. It filled the sky with its thunder, and placed fear into their hearts, Sam in his youthful imagination suddenly giving credence to what his mother had told him about how the end of the world would be heralded by trumpet blasts such as the ones they were now hearing._

_ The horn sounded a third time, mournful in its call, and Lisa, who was now clutching tightly to Kyle's arm, asked in a small voice, "Where is it coming from?"_

_ Sam peered into the horizon, his eyes, far keener than any other boy in their ramshackle village, sweeping the horizon. A shape appeared, hazy in the distance, and as it drew closer Sam suddenly realized what it was, and that was when true terror gripped his heart with pointy fingertips. "Its…" _

9:03 A.M., September 6th 2013 (Gregorian Calendar) Dark Tower Building, Tet Corporation Headquarters, New York, New York

Dr. Halsey woke up, a sharp red mark on her forehead where it had rested on the desk. She blinked several times, attempting to get her vision back to normal. The blurriness went away, but a single black dot in the left hand corner of her left eye remained. She ignored it the best she could, knowing full well that it would never go away. Her head was pounding, and Halsey struggled to remember the dream, but the headache spitting her head in not two but what seemed like half a dozen pieces prevented her from doing so.

Even in her pain Halsey could not help but to chuckle a little at her predicament. Her she was, a woman who was heralded as a genius in her own time, and had gained every advancement through the strength of her mind alone, was now slowly dying of a brain tumor. _Ka indeed_, she thought. Halsey never could get herself to fully embrace such concepts as gods and ka, even when the evidence demanded that she accept on an intellectual level that they did. Perhaps this was her atonement. To spend nearly three decades attempting to right the wrongs she had done in her past life, and then quietly wither away as the disease which rots took her.

Halsey shook her head, forcefully willing the headache to go away. She would not die, at least not easily. Not when there was still a chance, a chance to recreate the UNSC's method of treatment. Not when she still wanted so much to see Jack.

Jack.

Her mind went off on a tangent. There were so many forces at work, surrounding the boy with their own agenda in mind. North Central, Tet, ka, Gan, Diana, Cortana, the U.S. Government; so many with different ideas about who the child should be when he was older. To Halsey it was no wonder that John and Cortana wanted to keep their son's identity a secret from him for as long as they could. Any child his age could easily break under the strain, especially since Halsey was sure that Jack was not the only entity who was inhabiting his young body.

When the low-men had come and killed Rosalita something had awoken inside of Jack. Something dark and ancient. A being that cared nothing for creation and nothing for the child it was inhabiting the body with. Halsey had theorized that it was a possible split personality that was mostly dormant until the right stressful triggers came along, or perhaps a being like Mia which was just bidding its time and waiting for the right moment to take over, but the good doctor had eventually decided that it was neither of those two options.

The Doctor cradled her head in her hands, the migraine slowly returning, when a single gust of wind blew across her face. She looked up, and was suddenly met with the pale blue eyes of a young blonde haired woman clothed in a dress of leaves and flowers, her body purposefully curved in order to exhibit all the signs of hyper fertility.

"Halsey." Diana spat out the name as if it had left a foul taste in her mouth.

Dr. Halsey's headache ebbed, her mind at once realizing what kind of danger she was in.

The gods punished, and Halsey watched as Diana stretched out her hand, preparing to strike down the woman who had taken her son away from her.


	38. Chapter 38: A Mother's Love

Chapter 38: A Mother's Love

_Diana knew he was there before she even turned around. Even here, in her own dominion within Todash space, where the apple trees blossomed and the air was permeated with lilac, and the weather was in permanent limbo between spring and summer. Even here where she reigned supreme, where reality could be bent easily to her will. Even being what she was; immortal and eternally youthful, her age and powers far exceeding the man that was daring to walk behind her. Even with all that, she still felt a small prickle of fear. _

_ "Legion," Diana said his name harshly, turning to face him. _

_ The man in black stopped, his face hidden by the shadow of his hood and by the shade of the apple tree under which he stood. "My father was called by that moniker," he said thoughtfully. "Told me a story once about how he met the Man Jesus in the country of Gadarenes and was made to dwell within a herd of pigs." He frowned, his face ponderous. "Or perhaps that was me after all. It becomes rather hard to remember certain things after a few thousand years."_

_ "You are Maerlyn's bastard," Diana spat. "That is all."_

_ The dark man's frown reversed itself and he smiled tauntingly. "If I am a bastard than what does that make the child you are carrying?"_

_ Diana wrapped an arm around her now still flat stomach, shielding the life within from his penetrating stare. A retort almost rose to her lips, but she bit it down quickly, lest she divulge her secret, one that would surely send the entire might of the Red crashing down around her ears. _

_ Walter's smile widened, revealing his true demonic nature. "So you still won't say who the father is? Perhaps we should put you on the Maury Show? Let the DNA show who the father is." He looked her up and down with his invisible eyes, taking in her beauty. "He must have been quite a man to be able to seduce you."_

_ "He did not seduce me," Diana replied coldly, her blue eyes turning into slits._

_ The dark man shrugged. "I care not if you spread your legs like a common slut. The identity of the father is no concern of mine. At least not now in any case." Diana felt the tension ease within her, but kept her face blank and emotionless. "What I do care about is where you are going to have him." He looked around the orchard with an expression of mild boredom. "You can't have him here, as lovely as your domain is. He will grow, and his curiosity will eventually be the end of him. You can protect him here, but you cannot protect him from the demons that lie in wait in the abyss outside of your realm. This you already know I'm sure."_

_ "Why?" Diana asked. She knew where Walter was heading, and Legion did not offer anything without a price. _

_ "We want you out of the way," the dark man said cheerfully. "Personally I don't see what the fuss is about. You are a goddess of peace after all. You would never oppose us with violence or move with direct action. Of course this particular ethical stance does not stop the suffering of children who you were tasked by Gan to protect, but you seem to be too far set in your ways to change. Nevertheless, your influence within the worlds is still great, and my master wishes to see that ended." _

_ Diana showed no hint of emotion, but within her a battle raged with swords drawn and bows held taut, the armies of duty and her need to protect her son battling each other to the death. She kept her voice steady as she spoke, "Where?"_

_ Walter grinned victoriously. He took his time in answering, plucking an apple from the overhead tree with smooth wax like hands. He took a large bite out of it, the juice running down his face. His eyes never wavered from Diana as he chewed slowly. "Safe," he said at last. "My mother has chosen a world. Bit of a backwater. Nothing of importance there, though the citizens of that world still squabble over their petty differences like crewmen rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic, but that is true with all worlds. Your son will be safe and be able to live a peaceful life. I promise."_

_ "Your promises mean nothing to me," Diana said. _

_ "True," the man in black admitted. "But would you rather take a chance with the first option?" He took another bite of the apple, chuckling merrily. _

…

_ Diana was led down an endless labyrinth of winding white hallways, the lights overhead glaring angrily at her, the wheels of the hospital gurney squeaking every so often. A nurse, her voice monotone though not unkind, spoke to her with steady efficiency, reading the prompted questions on the data pad like a machine, all the while keeping pace with the doctors that were pushing Diana. _

_ "Is the father to be expected?" she asked, and when Diana shook her head the nurse tapped the box marked no on the data pad. "Any family members? Parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins?"_

_ "No," Diana said through gritted teeth, another contraction rising and falling._

_ "And friends who would wish to attend the birth."_

_ Diana paused for a moment before answering. "No."_

_ The nurse gave her a brief look that was neither pity nor surprise, but instead just mere curiosity. "Natural or drug assisted birth?"_

_ "Natural," Diana said determinedly. The pain was greater than she had initially expected, but to have anything less than a natural birth was insufferable. She was the goddess of fertility, the patron of mothers, and the guardian of children. That she was even giving birth in a hospital where babies were churned out like a factory was a deep sacrilege to her. She should be having her son in a wide open meadow, the sound of a nearby brook filling her ears, the wind and the sun on her face, the sky blue and cloudless. _

(See how the mighty have fallen) _the voice of Selena whispered in her ear. (_Such a long fall from your ivory tower my dear sister, and to think mothers across where's and when's have prayed to you. You who still hold to these false romanticized notions.)

Leave me, _Diana thought. _I will not have you here.

(Nature is suffering. Nature would have these men scraping a living off rocks and rutting in the dirt like the animals they really are. Nature is wicked and cruel. It cares nothing for its children, and would just as soon see them die. Nature has given you this curse, and I will take pleasure from it.)

_"Ma'am," the nurse said, and by the look of honest worry on her face Diana could tell that she had said the word a number of times. _

_ "Yes," Diana said weakly._

_ The worry passed and the nurse resumed her previously robotic nature. She handed the data pad to Diana, still keeping that remarkable pace with the moving bed as the doctors who pushed it took yet another turn. "I need you to sign here," she said, pointing at the data pad, and Diana did with the tip of her finger. "And here." Diana signed again. "And initial on these three lines here, here, and here." _

_ Diana glared up at the nurse with narrow eyes as cold as icebergs. "Do I have to do this while in labor?"_

_ The woman seemed to recoil, truly taken aback by the question. She coughed before speaking. "UNSC regulation dictates that an expectant mother must demonstrate possession of full understanding and knowledge of the risks she is taking by choosing a natural birth. By giving your signature you are acknowledging the inherent risks as well as relieving the hospital and the UNSC of any legal liability should…"_

_ "Enough," Diana said with an amount of authority that immediately caused the nurse's back to go rigid. With a grimace as another contraction arrived Diana signed her initials. _

…

_ The pain had been extraordinary. The pain of a camel being forced to pass through the eye of a needle. Diana had held on to her stoic dignity for as long as she could, but eventually it fell to the wayside as the miracle of childbirth unfolded. Occasionally she slipped into other languages as she cursed through the contractions, and an analysis of the audio provided by the security camera would later reveal that at least a dozen were used, including ancient Greek, Latin, Aramaic, and one unidentified language that ONI agents would later classify as mere gibberish, though one ambitious and young doctor would later determine that the mystery tongue Diana had used seemed to have all the hallmarks of an actual language even if it was impossible to decipher. _

_ But as with all things the pain passed, and was quickly forgotten as the child's first cries were heard. Despair filled her, however, when after only catching a glimpse of him her son was whisked away by the doctor, and in a near panic Diana attempted to sit up in the bed. "Where are they taking him?"_

_ "Routine checkup," the nurse said, a different nurse this time, but since she was using the same monotone voice as the first that fact hardly mattered. Diana waited anxiously as she watched the doctor and the two assistant nurses move around her son, a robot arm extending itself out of the ceiling and scanning the child with a lidless black eye which protruded out of it like the point of a single finger. After what seemed like ages, her son crying the whole time as the cold air wrapped its cruel hands around him, he was returned to her wrapped tightly in a blanket, a blue cap fitted tightly on his head._

_ The nurse that held him actually managed to smile at Diana as she reached for her son eagerly, pulling him into a warm embrace that immediately silence his cries. Diana held him gently, her vision blurry, and she wiped a rear of her cheek with her shoulder, not daring to free even a single hand that was supporting him. "He's beautiful," she said softly, feeling his soft brown hair with the tip of her thumb. _

_ "He is," the second nurse agreed, actually managing to sound genuine. She produced another data pad, though Diana hardly noticed. "Have you decided on a name?"_

_ "Yes," Diana said, not taking her eyes off of him. "John. John Eric Toren. It's what his father wanted. Eric for his grandfather and John for his uncle." Diana looked up at the nurse, "His father's brother died when he was young. He always said he wanted the name to be passed on." _

_ The nurse nodded typing into the data pad. "You're maiden name?" If the nurse had been perceptive she would have noticed a pause, almost as if Diana was thinking. "Diana Prim."_

_ "I need your middle name also," the nurse said casually._

_ "Sorry," Diana said. There was another pause, and this time the nurse did pick up on it. If it had not been for the many languages Diana had used during childbirth the nurse might have dismissed it, but instead alarm bells went off. Not loud one's mind you, but certainly loud enough, and with the Insurrection so prevelant throughout the colonies, and with her being required to report any suspicious activity, the nurse passed the information along to her superiors. They, after reviewing the tape, would pass it on to the UNSC, who would pass it along to ONI in an endless chain of government bureaucracy, and eventually the tape would be harvested by a particular AI named Déjà who would in turn bring it to the attention of one ambitious young doctor. _

_ "Diana Cortana Prim," she said finally._

_ The nurse raised an eyebrow, "Cortana?"_

_ "Yes," Diana said. She came up with the name out of thin air, and as surprised, if not somewhat alarmed, at how easily the lies both came to her and passed through her lips. "My mother was a professor in medieval literature and was particularly interested in the Matter of France, the legends surrounding Emperor Charlemagne and his knights. She was either going to have my middle name be Durendal if I was a boy or Cortana if I was a girl. She would have had my first name be Joyeuse if my father hadn't stopped her." She laughed, and it sounded genuine enough for the nurse to smile along with her. _

_ "And the father's name?" the nurse asked. _

_ "Arthur," Diana said._

_ The nurse smiled. "Another medieval literature reference?"_

_ Diana shook her head. "No. He was named after his great grandfather. His full name is Arthur Eld Toren." _

_ The nurse began tapping again and Diana turned her attention away from her. John had opened one bleary eye and was currently looking at the world around him for the first time. The other eye opened and he looked up at his mother who smiled down at him. "He has his father's eyes."_

_ "Most infants are born with blue eyes. His true eye color will be established in about six months," the nurse warned, still typing away at the pad. _

_ Diana shook her head. "No he'll keep his. Bombardier eyes. Gunslinger eyes." She leaned back against the pillows, feeling content as she held her son within her arms. "I love you John. Your mother loves you." _


End file.
